


Firstborns: unexpected bargains, terrible tradeoffs and surprising gains

by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)



Series: of witches, selkies and crows [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (I promise I hate myself for those), Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, I suppose that might be triggering for some so yeah it's a thing, Idiots in Love, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, but the Pontmercys have their baby taken away for a while, honestly it's mostly just sweet and ridiculous, instances of Cosette being very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD
Summary: "The text was short, straightforward, and though they expected more enthusiasm and bumbling from Marius, there was nothing inherently alarming about “baby’s born!!!! Please come!!”, so Jehan did just that.They weren’t sure what they expected; Jehan, who had a flexible mind and was nothing if not an enthusiast for the strange and the unknown, was very generous with their expectations. They did not expect the scene that met them upon their arrival."After a firstborn vow is mysteriously made, Jehan and Bahorel have to raise Cosette's and Marius' baby.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: of witches, selkies and crows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815451
Comments: 32
Kudos: 35





	1. A Vow

**Author's Note:**

> One THOUSAND thanks and hugs and all my love to [Elia](https://dork-with-a-uke.tumblr.com) for bearing with me through brainstorming, sleep-deprived writing, screaming about Bahorel using a papoose, panicking and the much dreaded editing, and also for being really damn cool in general. Thanks to the Discord crew for the support and for the plot bunny!
> 
> Many many thanks to [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre), [merelydovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely/pseuds/merelydovely) and [demourir](https://demourir.tumblr.com) for all their help and their excellent beta work!

The life of a witch was traditionally a solitary one. This had never bothered Jehan in the slightest. They lived alone —if living with a sarcastic crow familiar named Russell and a mysteriously moving skull called Maurice could be considered 'alone'— in a cottage crammed full of exactly the sort of arcane artifacts and odd knick-knacks one might expect to find in a traditional witch's house. Jehan themself had never claimed to be a traditional witch, but defining one's life in opposition to tradition was only another way of letting tradition shape one's life, wasn't it? Jehan merely lived the way they felt best, that was all. They had no expectation of expanding their household to include a partner anytime soon, much less a whole family. No, their only family for the foreseeable future was the very nontraditional one they had chosen for themself.

Les Amis de l’ABC was an organisation which did not care much for history but wished to change the future. Its members were predominantly fantastic entities, but really, according to the only cynic of the group, they would just accept any stray that came their way. Their cause, or rather, their main one —on that topic, their resident cynic also had some views—, was to appease relations between supernatural beings and humans, tear down stereotypes and the very mutual fear that lingered. The cause, Jehan had always thought, was admirable. However, it had been largely ignored by the masses, magical and otherwise. Though a little disheartening and frustrating, this had never bothered Jehan overmuch; the thought of giving up on Les Amis had never even crossed their mind. That was because Les Amis’ main appeal and strength had always been its members —the cynic included. These members made up the entirety of Jehan’s family, chosen however it may be.

They were a bright, loud bunch prone to goodness as much as mischief. The mischief was never specifically on the agenda, unless a more aggressive course of action had been decided on, but somehow still occurred, as it is wont to do amongst such good friends. There once occurred a special brand of mischief, however, which even the best of friends —and the best they were— could not foresee. Jehan was no exception.

The text they received that night was not surprising. Cosette had been due to give birth two weeks ago. Her belly was heavy, her feet and back were in pain, she was _desperate_ to give birth and, had she not been of the most benevolent kind of witches herself, she might have cursed the treasured cargo, just a little. As it was, she had only solicited Jehan’s help; plant magic can do wonder in such cases. Thus, Jehan was very much aware that they were likely to receive a text announcing the birth of the newest member of the Pontmercy family. 

The text was short, straightforward, and though they expected more enthusiasm and bumbling from Marius, there was nothing inherently alarming about “baby’s born!!!! Please come!!”, so Jehan did just that. They set aside the potion they were working on, told Russell not to wait up for them, and left for the Pontmercy cottage.

They weren’t sure what they expected; Jehan, who had a flexible mind and was nothing if not an enthusiast for the strange and the unknown, was very generous with their expectations. They did not expect the scene that met them upon their arrival.

The cottage was close to empty when they let themself in. That in and of itself was not all too alarming; the young parents were at complete freedom to want some quiet after such a momentous event. Jehan themself had been following Cosette’s pregnancy, and their visit after the birth had been discussed and planned moons ago. Still, they would have expected to find a few of their friends present, Courfeyrac especially. He was Marius’ closest friend and had been particularly invested in the process. 

Upon arrival, Jehan quickly noticed that there was no Courfeyrac, and none of his contagious enthusiasm. As a matter of fact, they noticed that there was no enthusiasm at all.

The main room of the cottage was cold, despite the warm weather outside; it was dark but for a few small lamps, seemingly more set on casting shadows than they were on lighting up the place. The room was also empty, save for Marius, who seemed as cold and dark as his home. He was pacing, gaze firmly down to the floor, and his hair, usually kept neat, told a tale of many fears and of a night that would be sleepless. He barely even noticed Jehan’s entrance.

“Marius?” they asked tentatively. The chill of the room had already seeped deep into Jehan’s bones, along with fear. “Is something wrong? Are Cosette and the child alright?”

Marius shook, his whole body whipping towards them. “Oh, Jehan! You’re here, finally!” 

“I came as soon as I received your summon,” they said, reaching out for Marius’ hands. They were unsteady, and the fingers that reflexively squeezed Jehan’s own were raw, the nails bitten down to stubs. “What’s going on, Marius?”

“Did you not meet him on the way?”

Jehan frowned, increasingly puzzled and worried. “Meet who? Courfeyrac? Marius, tell me wha—” Whatever Jehan might have asked was interrupted by the front door opening abruptly and banging shut.

“JEHAN! MARIUS!” Bahorel boomed, rushing to squeeze them both into a bear hug before they could even fully register the newcomer. “Did you meet the baby yet?” he asked Jehan excitedly when he pulled back, leaving a heavy hand on their shoulder. 

Jehan was glad to see Bahorel. As a matter of fact, they were more than _glad_ to see Bahorel, but we will get back to that later. Glad as they were, Jehan was also confused to see Bahorel, who, though a good enough friend of Cosette, wasn’t exactly the closest to the Pontmercys. 

Bahorel’s face fell, finally sensing the tension permeating the room. “What’s wrong? Where are the others?”

“The others aren’t coming, we only texted you two,” Marius said, with a voice as shaky as his hands. “You should come.”

With that, he pulled away from Jehan and led them out of the room to what they knew to be the bedroom. He knocked on the shut door and wordlessly waited for Cosette’s assent. Her choked “come in” rang quickly, but it iced Jehan’s veins further still; there was no mistaking the tears weighing her voice.

Marius pushed the door open as if it might crumble against his hands. He would have undoubtedly delayed as much as he could, so reluctant seemed he to let them in, but Bahorel pushed on undeterred. There were a great many words which could be used to describe Bahorel, as he was a most fascinating fellow, but ‘patient’ was not one of them. Fear had the unfortunate tendency to make him brash, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that the strain that filled the cottage had him scared.

This was a poor move, for the next second unfolded with confounding speed. Marius, sweet-tempered and skittish Marius, reached out to clamp a hand onto Bahorel’s arm, as if to stop him from approaching the bed. Cosette, burrowed into the covers with a squirming bundle in her arms, whimpered and recoiled against her pillows. Jehan blinked in confusion, just as they were hit with a peculiar yet strong feeling of longing. From the way Bahorel stilled suddenly, Jehan assumed he felt it, too. 

A wet cry rang out, the grumpy sob of a newborn child. The strange calling intensified, pulling deep from Jehan’s chest.

“Cosette,” they started, making a careful step towards their friend. “What’s going on?”

When Marius didn’t try to stop them, Jehan made their way to the bed, the pull stronger and stronger with each step they took. Bahorel followed, though keeping a respectful distance; from the tenseness of his shoulders and the tight clenching of his jaw, this seemed to be an impressive exercise of self-control.

“How did this happen? I don’t understand,” Cosette asked tearfully, rocking her baby perhaps with more vigor than necessary in her distress. The child cried.

Jehan was reaching out once more, hoping to provide some comfort to their friend, when she finally turned to face them, cutting their gesture short. She looked exhausted, though that was to be expected from someone who had just given birth. Her weariness and blotchy eyes, however, were jarring; they did not belong on Cosette’s youthful face, not when she had wanted her child so badly. “We never promised her to you, did we? There’s no way we would have done that, and no way you would have tricked us.” 

After a few long beats of silence, understanding dawned in Jehan’s mind.

“You know any help I give is given freely; I would never ask you for your firstborn.” Jehan shook their head emphatically. This particular practice was rather antiquated amongst witches, though not completely abandoned, and it clashed severely with Jehan’s own brand of magic —they did not dabble in blood magic lightly, and decidedly not with an unwilling soul such as a baby’s. Amongst demons, however, questionable practices persisted, but Jehan, much like the rest of Les Amis, would have trusted Bahorel with their life. Besides, he was quite a peculiar demon anyway, and likely had no interest at all in a half-human baby.

The point remained that firstborn vows understandably remained much feared by humans and magic entities alike. Even nowadays, no one would take such a topic lightly.

“I know,” said Cosette.

“Wait, what?” Bahorel interrupted. “The baby is promised to—to Jehan?” He stumbled and stilled, his eyes finally landing on the crying child nestled in Cosette’s arms. The cries were now closer to hysterical bawling in spite of Cosette’s shushing. Bahorel’s eyes were wild and he looked ready to pounce, grab the child, and run. Jehan recognised it as the longing they felt themself. Firstborn vows were potent magic and there was no doubt this child was now theirs by right. Bahorel clenched his eyes shut before turning them towards Jehan, questioning. “They’re promised to _us_?”

“She,” Marius corrected, behind them. “She’s called Madeleine Jeanne Pontmercy.” Her last name was added bitterly to drive home the point. It also intensified her angry wailing; Cosette’s attempts to soothe her were useless. This was the magic speaking, the presence of her biological parents was upsetting her. Jehan and Bahorel would have to take her away.

Words of congratulations stuck to Jehan’s throat. They seemed hollow, inappropriate. What could you say to parents who were losing their child as soon as they were given one?

“Wait, no offence, but I don’t want your child,” Bahorel cut in roughly once more. His booming voice, rather than upsetting the baby further, quieted her. “This is a mistake. You don’t want to lose her, and I’m definitely not cut out to be a father. And I don’t think Jehan wants to be a parent either, do you?” he added, turning towards Jehan once more. They shook their head in agreement. “Can’t you just keep her?”

Cosette scoffed. “You think we wouldn’t keep our daughter if we could?”

“You know it’s not that easy,” Jehan said. “You feel the pull, don’t you? They can’t keep her; she’s ours, now.”

Cosette hugged Madeleine tighter against her chest, the baby’s sobs once more piercing the air. “How did this even happen? Not just once, but twice? How did we promise her to the both of you?” 

“We’ll figure this out, Cosette. We’ll fix this, you _will_ get Madeleine back.” Jehan’s determined tone shook the occupants of the room. They had a rather meek disposition; they were passionate about things frequently, dove into books, poetry writing, their garden or new spells with abandon, but seldom did they _speak_ passionately. There were few things, however well loved or outrageous, that couldn’t be said calmly; therefore, Jehan said them calmly. For this reason, with no such spoken word of promise, the conviction that raked Jehan’s body that night was a more solemn vow than the Pontmercys could ever have hoped for. The couple relaxed instantly, though Bahorel tensed up. He held a steady gaze Jehan themself couldn’t read, but anyone who has ever loved or admired would see for what it was.

Bahorel’s eyes may have said much to any witness of the scene, but his jaw was slack; he gaped. Had the circumstances been any lighter, or had the rest of their friends been present, our protagonists wouldn’t have failed to take note of his quietness. Bahorel was, after all, what is politely called a smartass, and what his youngest friend Gavroche would affectionately qualify as “a loud pain in the ass”. The room being as grave as it was, however, managed to drown his silence, and so it falls to us to point out that this was noteworthy, for Bahorel was finding himself speechless for the very first time in his life.

Madeleine’s cries, increasingly loud and angry, broke the severity of the moment.

“Can I hold her?” Jehan asked tentatively. 

Reluctant as she was, Cosette handed her wailing daughter to her friend. A young mother unwillingly separated from her child is heart-rending, and this one choked out a sob when little Madeleine left her arms. Immediately, Marius, who had found a seat by her side, squeezed her newly freed hands between his own. They both had yet to stop shaking.

Carefully, as if she were made of spun sugar, Jehan brought the baby to their own chest. “Good evening, Madeleine,” they greeted calmly. 

Madeleine stopped crying, and the mysterious pull in Jehan quieted. She looked up curiously behind their shoulder, and from the tickle of hair they felt against their ear, Jehan knew she was staring up at Bahorel. He was peeking down in wonder himself, and so quieted Bahorel’s own peculiar longing.

  
  


* * *

Jehan shut the door behind them carefully, so as not to jostle the sleeping baby in their arms, while Bahorel set down the large bag containing Madeleine’s essentials. 

“Just so you know, I do _not_ know how to change a nappy and I do _not_ want to learn any time soon,” he said, letting his eyes roam around the cramped room.

“Lovely,” Jehan answered dryly. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask Madeleine not to poop, then?” 

Bahorel’s booming laugh was met with a frustrated flutter of wings from where Russell had likely been sleeping.

“Can’t a crow just get some rest?” he grumbled, startling Bahorel. Russell was rarely home when Jehan entertained company; “better things to do”, he said, but Jehan suspected their familiar was actually a little shy. Nevertheless, his usually scarce presence always made for a surprise when he decided to greet Jehan’s guests. “A demon, huh? Didn’t know they made demonic Care Bears nowadays,” he pointed out, studying Bahorel with beady eyes, head cocked to the side.

“Wha—” started Bahorel, but Russell largely ignored him, flying low to drop onto Jehan’s shoulder and peer down at Madeleine.

“Did you bring back dinner? How lovely of you!”

Jehan, used to their familiar’s antics, snorted a quiet laugh to avoid waking the baby.

“Dinner? I’ll show you dinner, chicken!” Bahorel exclaimed, outraged. “What’s this, Jehan? I’ve met hellspawn nicer than this pigeon!”

“Shh, you’ll wake Madeleine,” chastised Jehan, moving about the cottage and inspecting vials only they knew the purpose of. “Bahorel, this is my familiar, Russell. Russell, this is my— Bahorel. Play nice, he’s going to stay with us for a while.” 

“I am?”

“Unless you’d rather Madeleine and I move to your place until we find a solution? She can’t be away from either of us.” 

“Right.” Bahorel scrunched up his nose at the idea of having them both stay at his place. Jehan was too polite to do the same, but they had seen Bahorel’s lair (“I prefer ‘love nest’,” he had said. “Nice,” Courfeyrac had agreed. “So much worse,” Grantaire had commented. Joly had almost fainted at the state of the room), and they rather shared the sentiment.

“There was a problem,” Jehan explained to Russell. “Cosette and Marius somehow promised Madeleine to both Bahorel and me.”

“Whatever happened, it was Marius’ fault,” the familiar quipped, earning an amused snort from Bahorel. Jehan thought idly that there might be some hope for the two of them.

“That means we need to take care of her until we find a way to break that vow and return Madeleine to her real parents.”

“So, no dinner, then.” Russell departed rather gracelessly from Jehan’s shoulder, but he did so with great precautions so as to not wake the baby; they smiled, grateful.

“Unless you want to be _Cosette’s_ dinner,” Bahorel piped in from where he was fiddling with Madeleine’s bag, and if the crow hadn’t been so proud and obviously set on antagonising the demon, Jehan was sure he would have croaked in amusement. “Alright, Jehan, we should probably set all her things up before she wakes. Just tell me where you’d like them to be, I can take care of the heavy lifting,” he said, making a show of flexing his biceps.

They made good time, or rather, Bahorel did, Jehan supervising as they got a late dinner ready for the both of them. It had been several hours since Jehan’s actual dinner and they knew that Bahorel always hovered somewhere between peckish and plain ravenous. 

By the time Bahorel was finished, Madeleine had woken up and started squirming unhappily, tears filling her eyes. Bahorel and Jehan stared at one another, paralysed for a second. How did new parents figure out how to care for a baby? Who would willingly inflict upon themselves the responsibility of caring for a being who couldn’t voice their needs?

Luckily, a quickly-intensifying smell spoke for itself, though Bahorel’s eyes remained just as wide.

“Oh no,” he said. His gaze travelled to Jehan’s hands, busy stirring some soup over the stove; he groaned. “I guess it’s only fair. You cook, I get… poop duty. How does one even do that?” He gestured vaguely towards Madeleine.

Jehan shrugged. Their experience and general inclinations towards babies were fairly limited. “Look it up? I’m guessing we’ll both have to, sooner or later. I swear I’ll get the next one.”

Resigned, Bahorel lifted the baby with uncharacteristic care (from fear of harming her or from disgust at the offending scent, Jehan didn’t know), but it then occurred to them that Bahorel still hadn’t carried her. Dramatic context and smelly situation aside, the sight made them smile tenderly, bats aflutter deep inside their stomach. They couldn’t help laughing as Bahorel gravely marched on to the bathroom.

Russell perched himself on Maurice, who had somehow found his way to the stovetop.

“Are you sure we can trust a demon with a human child?”

“Half-human,” Jehan corrected. “And stop with the assumptions. They’re insulting, and I won’t accept any of that.” 

Much like with witches, most people had a very set idea of what demons should be like. Very few bothered to challenge their prejudices regarding the species and, granted, very few demons would have tried to prove them wrong. Bahorel, though, most definitely would have.

Bahorel really wasn’t that bad, which meant he was a bad demon. Being bad, or rather, being _good_ for his kind —and that was quite confusing to Jehan as well— had never interested Bahorel much. From what Jehan had gathered over the years, Bahorel had slacked off at demon school even as a child . Making people’s lives hell, according to him, was just old school: unoriginal and very little payoff for one’s efforts (“Am I supposed to enjoy hearing them shriek, beg, and sob? That’s just sick.” Jehan rather agreed). At most, when Bahorel felt antsy from the pent-up aggressiveness that was inherent to his nature, he simply punched bigots. Try as he might, he never managed to feel bad for punching bigots. The crunch of their nose, or so he said, had something greatly satisfying to him. On that matter, Jehan wouldn’t join in the act but couldn’t really find it in themself to oppose it. Bigots _did_ have punchable faces, or hexable asses, as the case may be.

By the standards of his people, Bahorel plainly _sucked_. In Jehan’s opinion, Bahorel’s occupation was simply misunderstood. In Bahorel’s opinion, the world really could just get lost; making people’s day a little bit shit was respectable in its own right and was much more enjoyable for all parties. Therefore, he was happy to simply arrange for a bus to drive on that large puddle of water when one was walking by, to make the chewing gum on the ground impossibly sticky and hard to remove from the sole of one’s shoe, or to render coffee cups terribly slippery and easy to drop on one’s clean suit. It was an art Jehan might not fully understand themself, but they respected it all the same. After all, Bahorel hardly understood the care they gave to their garden, musty spell books, and concoctions, but he didn’t judge them for it either. Returning the courtesy really wasn’t that hard.

“He’s not cruel and not a child-eater,” Jehan continued. “Besides, he’s my friend, and you will treat him just like you would treat Cosette or Grantaire.” Of all their friends, these two were the only ones who regularly came to spend time at Jehan’s cottage.

“Yes, but Cosette is a witch, and Grantaire is _great_ ,” Russell said, as fondly as the croaking voice of a corvid could really get. Though their realms differed greatly, Russell had always had a soft spot for Grantaire, the aforementioned cynical selkie.

“Treat them the _same_ ,” Jehan insisted; that earned them a sharp peck from Russell’s beak, but he didn’t protest any further. That was a victory in Jehan’s book.

Bahorel returned from the bathroom, nose still scrunched up, but he sniffed happily upon entering the main room. “Smells _great_! And I’m now well-versed in all sorts of smells, so you better believe this qualified nose. It really smells delicious, Jehan.”

Jehan thanked him with a smile, but was interrupted by the resumption of Madeleine’s whining. Panic seized them both once more. 

“Maybe she’s hungry?” they offered. 

Feeding her was a _much_ nicer experience than changing her, Bahorel declared soon after while sitting on the sofa, a sated, sleeping Madeleine in his lap and a bowl of warm soup in his hands. Jehan thought that maybe, just maybe, they would be alright.

* * *

The following morning saw the new parents bleary-eyed and longing for sleep before they’d even left their bed —or sofa, in Bahorel’s case. Jehan certainly was no stranger to late nights and little sleep; it is a well-known fact that witches work best when the moon shines bright in the sky. Still, as unconventional a witch as Jehan might be, their strange habits and other quirks hadn’t prepared them for a baby’s regular loud cries of discomfort.

Bahorel seemed to fare much better than his host, though the astonishing heaviness of his sleep might have helped. Jehan had indeed done most of the tending, or fumbling through it. They counted one nappy change, two feedings, and one inexplicable outburst of cries which was finally soothed by many, many renditions of “Au clair de la lune” that Jehan sang through their yawns. If anything, that first night had made them realise their clear need to brush up on their lullaby collection.

“I’ll get breakfast ready,” Bahorel called out as greeting when Jehan entered the room, furiously rubbing at their stinging eyes.

He stood and headed towards the kitchen before stopping abruptly in his tracks. Madeleine’s cry rang out at the same time. “I actually have no idea where you keep your things. I’ll take care of Madeleine, you get the food?” 

Jehan nodded in response, a yawn larger than their own body shaking them. Bahorel laughed, dropping a large hand on their shoulder as he walked past.

Breakfast was quickly thrown together and Madeleine’s milk warmed up the way Jehan had done several times throughout the night. Their quiet puttering around was punctuated regularly by the demon’s voice, several disgusted tuttings and one particularly undignified yelp: “Ah! Poop on my hand!”

Jehan was nursing a steaming cup of tea, Russell nestled close in a nearby chair, when the heavy footsteps of Bahorel padded over to them. Rocking a now quiet baby, he went to drop heavily into the chair by the witch’s side but stilled suddenly.

“Watch where you sit, you great lump!”

Jehan thought to scold Russell for a moment before remembering they had instructed him to treat their new guest as they would their friend Grantaire and, really, this didn’t stray far from his friendship with the selkie.

Bahorel ignored him entirely, choosing to sit on the countertop instead, and turned towards Jehan. “This is going to be hell,” he announced seriously, handing them Madeleine. “Or worse than. Hell isn’t even that bad, it’s just the humidity that’s shit. Seriously, though, I have all of two skills and neither have anything to do with babies.” He grabbed a mug —Jehan’s, failing to notice its half-emptied content or the warning hum they gave— and swallowed a noisy sip. “Well… That’s not true, the skills just involve baby making more than baby raising.” 

Giving Madeleine the milk bottle, Jehan snorted a laugh. Bahorel grinned as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Their friend was a flirt, Jehan knew, and quite open on the matter of his sex life, though Jehan could hardly know that Bahorel’s flirting and extensive comments about his sexual inclinations were rather subdued when Jehan themself wasn’t within hearing distance. It is also unlikely they would have drawn any pertinent conclusion had they heard; as you will see, their love language differed greatly from Bahorel’s.

“And a humble lump, at that…” Russell croaked out before flying away entirely through the window Jehan kept open for him. 

Bahorel continued, surprisingly determined not to take Russell’s bait: “But the rest, no can do. Honestly, that has to be the worst tradeoff in history. Marius and Cosette got the sex part and we get the soiled nappies? That’s a _scam_.” 

Again, Jehan might have protested that Marius and Cosette would rather have to deal with nappies than to give up their baby, but sleep had yet to leave them entirely. Besides, they knew him to be jesting; the nappies did seem to have traumatised him somewhat. 

“Want some bread? I made it yesterday, and the jam I made this spring.”

Bahorel didn’t need any more convincing and wolfed down most of the loaf and half the jar before it was time for Marius and Cosette to arrive for a visit.

“They should get here any moment now. I’ll go get changed; I can’t receive them in my PJs.” Jehan excused themself with a nod, returning a happy and drowsy Madeleine to the demon’s arms.

A loud knock came shortly after they returned to the living area —whether their newly donned clothes looked any less like pyjamas than their previous outfit had, neither we nor Bahorel will be the judge of.

“How is she?” Cosette asked as soon as she entered, hand clasping Marius’ tightly as he trailed behind her.

“She’s okay, Cosette. Please, sit,” Jehan said, gesturing toward the couch. 

Bahorel looked all too happy to bring Madeleine to her parents and get rid of the responsibility, even for a little while. Cosette eagerly extended her arms to receive her daughter, her face finally smoothing down the deep worry lines that hadn’t left her since the previous night. Her expression crumpled just as quickly, for Madeleine started wailing the second Cosette held her. Tears filled her eyes, her bottom lip wobbled helplessly, and Marius squeezed closer to her.

“Can I try?” he asked, his voice betraying his nervousness. 

She handed him their child, but the wails didn’t stop. He tried to rock her, comfort her, shush her; he told her _papa is here, maman too, no need to cry_ , with all the awkwardness of a father who hasn’t had any time to hold his child, yet with all the love that Marius Pontmercy carried in his chest —and what a great deal that was! —to no avail. Madeleine cried and cried, her face reddening, tears flowing and flowing.

“May I?” Jehan asked shyly. They weren’t sure this would work, maybe the baby was just being fussy about something and none of her parents —biological or magically bound ones— knew how to fix it yet. Still, they knew that the longing they had felt the night before in the Pontmercy’s bedroom had returned the instant Madeleine had left Bahorel’s hold.

Wordlessly, Marius stood to gently deposit his precious cargo within Jehan’s awaiting arms. The loud cries quieted to a whimper. They sang, the tears stopped. They smiled down, her eyes closed in contentment. 

That was also when Cosette’s sob sliced through the air. Marius rushed back to her side to take her in his arms and Jehan looked at Bahorel, their eyes wide in panic.

Thankfully, another knock came. The demon went to answer, and Courfeyrac burst in immediately, Bossuet at his heels.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” he demanded, dispensing with any friendlier greeting. Bahorel barely just refrained from commenting on his choice of words.

“Hi everyone. And huh, congratulations?” said Bossuet.

“Anyone want tea?” Jehan offered awkwardly. 

* * *

“So, you mean to tell us you not only promised your firstborn to one, but to _two_ people?” Courfeyrac said dumbly some time later, when all had been explained and everyone had settled down around the only table in Jehan’s home that wasn’t already covered in books, vials, half-full cauldrons and many, many notebooks. 

“And I thought _I_ had shit luck,” Bossuet commented before taking a painfully careful sip of his tea —half of it had already landed on his lap and scalded his thighs on his first try, and the second sip had burnt his tongue. “So, are we even sure you can’t just say fuck it and keep the baby? It’s not like Jehan and Bahorel are going to oppose it, are you?” 

“Stop swearing in front of the baby!” Cosette said, affronted. Bahorel scoffed and mumbled in his beard what Jehan thought might be something along the lines of “ _she doesn’t understand shit yet,_ ” but they weren’t sure; Cosette was within his hearing range, and Jehan doubted Bahorel had a death wish.

“That’s your magic legal consultant, really?” Bahorel snorted. “Didn’t you study magic law?”

“Hey, it’s technically Marius’ fault that I got kicked out,” Bossuet said with a shrug. 

Courfeyrac interrupted them. “Luckily for you, someone here finished his studies, and I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Lesgles. Magic law is more complicated because it’s binding. Madeleine _cannot_ stay with Cosette and Marius. They can’t remain close for too long.”

“Or else...?” Jehan asked warily.

“I think we really don’t want to find out.”

“Urgh, I _hate_ magic law. And I _hate_ magic lawyers,” said Bahorel, hands clenching where they rested on the worn table. “I swear, I see one, my fists automatically tingle, they _need_ to punch their face.”

“Hey!” Courfeyrac protested, equal parts outraged and amused.

Bossuet turned to Marius sitting to his left and whispered a thank you, presumably for saving him from the terrible fate of becoming a magic lawyer and meeting Bahorel’s fists.

“You almost became one yourself, Bahorel,” Jehan pointed out with a smile.

“Yes, well, I have enough self-deprecation to be at peace with it,” Bahorel said, grinning at them.

“Friends, please,” said Cosette, sounding as dejected as she looked, eyes still red and puffy. “Can we get back on track? Is there a way to fix this, Courfeyrac?”

“Luckily, there _is_ ,” he announced. “And it’s quite easy, since all parties consent.” The energy around the cottage shifted. There was a sense of anticipation that permeated the room in an instant, and Marius and Bahorel sat forward in their creaking chairs. 

“How do we do it?” Marius pressed.

“Jehan and Bahorel must both renounce their claims.” Courfeyrac lifted a hand before anyone could interrupt him. He knew his friends had likely tried this already. “There’s a specific wording for it. I’ll guide you through it. And you need to know what bargain was struck, why Madeleine is legally theirs now.”

“But we don’t know!” Cosette objected. “We would have never struck that bargain!”

“You must have, somehow. Firstborn vows don’t simply happen, that’s serious magic. You have to remember it.”

“What if we don’t?” Jehan asked with a voice so quiet that the others might have imagined it.

“I don’t know, then. There might be other ways, I’ll research them but… I think that’s the only way,” Courfeyrac said, giving an apologetic look to Cosette and Marius, who were still clutching to each other.

“Someone _will_ remember,” Bossuet declared, breaking the painful silence that had just settled once more. “Among Les Amis. With that many heads, there’s no way no one remembers.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

* * *

An emergency meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC was called the following day. Everyone had received an explanatory text from Courfeyrac —the biological parents had been too drained to take care of it, and the legal parents too busy figuring out how to care for a baby— and everyone showed up, including Madeleine, safely tucked into her stroller.

The first half of the meeting was spent gushing over their youngest member, her little hands, her little toes and her button nose, and commiserating with Cosette and Marius. Bahorel was glad to receive some compassion from Feuilly.

“Let me tell you, I didn’t think I would ever google ‘how to change a nappy’ in my life, yet here I am…” he trailed off dramatically.

They also happily figured out, thanks to Musichetta’s suggestion, that there was a way for Cosette and Marius to hold Madeleine, as long as Bahorel or Jehan kept a hand on her. The young mother brought her baby to her chest while Jehan held delicately onto her tiny hand, and Cosette tearfully squeezed her child, at peace for the first time. Many ooh-ed and aah-ed at the sight; they remained entangled together that way for the rest of the meeting.

Soon enough, however, Enjolras’ clear voice cut through the chatter. “Everyone, let’s try to focus. Anyone remember anything about these vows?”

The ruckus started once more, every member asking and wondering “that day, maybe?”, “didn’t Marius owe Jehan a favour or something?”, “could it have been then?”.

“Oh,” Grantaire’s low voice rang strangely loudly amongst their midst. “Oooooh,” his eyes widened.

“Grantaire, what did you do?” Enjolras said immediately.

“Uh-oh,” Grantaire answered, visibly still shocked, processing something.

“Grantaire, do you know something?” Cosette asked with a voice as soothing as she could manage, considering the circumstances. It was, all in all, still quite soft, but there was no mistaking her impatience.

“I think… this is my fault,” he said, wincing and only now daring to look at Cosette.

“Of course it would be,” Enjolras huffed. That earned him a jab to the ribs from Courfeyrac’s left elbow and a kick to his right shin from Bahorel’s foot. Jehan could not say they condoned violence, but they did level an unimpressed glare at Enjolras, who flinched. There was no excusable reason for Enjolras to direct his frustration at his and Grantaire’s obvious unresolved sexual tension onto poor Grantaire; no need to be cruel. To his credit, Grantaire only looked pained for a few seconds.

“Enjolras, let him explain,” Musichetta said in a pacifying tone. 

“Do you remember, two or three years ago, when you guys staged that crappy sit-in for… what was it, again? Can’t remember at the top of my head —too many of them— but it was something pointless, as usual,” he added, with a toothy smile that had no warmth at all. If anything, it bled bruised ego and it was directed at none other than Enjolras, who was still rubbing at his side from the vicious elbowing.

“Anyway, no one but us really showed up, and I’m still not sure why _I_ showed up but I did. Probably because the weather was great, and because I knew that some of you had packed some food. Bossuet had made some of these tiny bananas wrapped in bacon, which definitely sounds wrong, but _works_ somehow. Cosette had brought cupcakes, some were lavender-flavoured and had pearled-sugar thingies sprinkled on top —truly beautiful, by the way, Cosette— the others had raspberries in them and they were to die for. Courfeyrac had made his usual mini-quiches and Jehan, the incredible person that they are, had baked a blueberry pie that smelled _so good_ I spent the entire morning salivating.”

Several voices interrupted what likely would have gone for a while longer. 

“Please cut to the chase,” Feuilly said, though not unkindly.

“How the hell do you not remember the cause of the sit-in but you can list all of the food we had?” Combeferre asked, looking equally confused, impressed and fascinated.

“Oh, that _pie,_ ” Bahorel said, bringing a hand to his chest in fond recollection. Jehan beamed at him.

And finally: “uh-oh,” came Marius’ voice.

“Marius?” Cosette whipped towards him. The way her entire posture had turned so threatening when she was still a good head shorter than almost anyone else in their group was inspiring. Jehan held onto Madeleine’s small hand a little tighter. The movement had almost made them lose their grip.

“So at some point, we got the food out,” Grantaire continued without a care. “Everyone was eating except for our fearless leader, who was speaking about whatever he had decided was on top of the agenda that day. And we got to the pie; Jehan divided it equally and because you guys are all goblins, you all practically inhaled your slice —it honestly was gone quicker that you could say ‘fae’— but I didn’t finish mine off as quickly as everyone else… I can’t remember why,” he trailed off, but his blush betrayed him. Jehan remembered, and the others could probably guess. Grantaire had likely been staring at Enjolras, completely enraptured with what he was saying. He loved to interrupt him with any possible infuriating quips he could think of, but Enjolras out there, alight with conviction and the sun that only added to his natural glow…

“Anyway, I still had my slice and Marius, who is even more of a goblin than anyone else here —”

“Please stop with that already. That’s just demeaning to goblins,” Enjolras interrupted.

“Hey!” Marius said, wounded.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Grantaire started again, “I had my slice and Marius said something like ‘Jehan, I’d give my firstborn for another slice of your pie,’ and because I’m a good friend, if a little stupid, since I didn’t pick up on the implication, I gave him my slice.”

“Oh shit,” said Cosette.

“Oops?” said Marius.

  
  
  



	2. A Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game: spot all the ways I throw shade at Marius, directly and indirectly. Happens at least once per chapter! (sorry Marius I do love you but you're canonically "a booby" and I don't make the rules)
> 
> Again, huge thanks to [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre), [merelydovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely/pseuds/merelydovely) and [demourir](https://demourir.tumblr.com) for their awesome beta work!

Jehan, like any respectable green witch, kept a garden, though “had” a garden or “lived with a garden” might be a more accurate description. The garden, while tended to with the utmost love and care, mostly did as it wished and grew at will. Jehan planted, assisted with pruning and shaping when help was needed, harvested what they required for food or craft, and let nature do its thing. Its thing, as it so happened, was remarkably potent. As Jehan themself proved there was great power in quiet gentleness; their garden was much the same. Any magical being and even most humans would be able to sense the thrumming energy that permeated the place; it was never threatening —Jehan gave their garden too much love for it to ever consider being harmful— but it undeniably had a  _ thereness _ that no sensible creature would have been able to ignore.

When they had neither potion to brew, nor spell to work on, nor customer to entertain, Jehan was most likely in said garden, straw hat on their head, knee-deep in the mud or sprawled on their stomach amongst the greenery. There, they scribbled poetry in their chicken-scratch handwriting, talked to the plants and took in the vibrancy of the place.

This was such a day. That morning, Jehan had turned on their old and bulky computer; the dust on it made them sneeze. The beast finally on, they had emailed their usual customers to inform them of their slowed work activity for the time being. Suddenly raising a baby and living with someone other than a talkative crow and a mysteriously moving skull was proving to be a significant change in their lifestyle, one that required some adapting. 

They were presently attempting to strike a satisfying balance, kneeling amongst the valerian, tending to their honeysuckle; Madeleine was sleeping, strapped tightly to their back in the sling Cosette had brought the previous day. The weight of her was still peculiar. Jehan’s stature could only be described as petite, and they couldn’t help but fear the small bundle would topple them over. As much as their work’s main purpose was to help others —to heal or otherwise, depending on the situation— that a being might depend on them so entirely had them unsteady. Jehan had never felt so lucky to have Bahorel around —and Jehan, as far as we’ll care to think back, had always felt immensely lucky to know Bahorel, even if their relationship had yet to bloom into what Jehan truly hoped for.

“You’ve been down here so long, I almost thought you’d turned into a plant.” Bahorel’s voice broke them out of their reverie. Jehan was surprised they had not heard his heavy steps, because he now stood by their side. Either they had been much deeper in their thoughts than they’d imagined, or he had been uncharacteristically quiet —so as not to disturb their peace or to be sure to startle them. Both ideas were equally endearing to Jehan.

“Now that would be a lovely development, wouldn’t it?” they said amiably, pulling at some weeds. They didn’t do this often, trusting the garden to grow as it should, but they had to, every now and then. Everyone needs a nudge in the right direction on occasion. “Being a cosmos bloom, I’d like that.”

Jehan smiled over their shoulder as Bahorel struggled to settle down amongst the greenery. He didn’t have Jehan’s knowledge of the plants, didn’t know what was to be protected and what wasn’t. Bahorel also happened to be much broader than Jehan; his legs were much longer and his thighs wider. He would leave a large imprint amidst the flowers, no doubt. Jehan found they rather liked the idea of Bahorel leaving a trace of himself in their garden. His clumsy but obvious care brought a pleased rush of warmth to their cheeks.

“Have you been able to remember anything?”

Since their meeting almost a week ago, Bahorel had been trying to recall any instances in which Madeleine might have been promised to him. So far, he hadn’t had any luck. He and Jehan had spent long hours reminiscing, going through old pictures, anything to spark a recollection, but the farthest they’d gotten was for Jehan to realize in full just how deep and old their feelings for the demon ran --unbeknownst to Bahorel, naturally.

“Nope, nada,” Bahorel said, dejected. He’d brought his knees to his chest in a valiant effort to not crush the valerian. His success was debatable, but Jehan appreciated the thought all the same. “We can’t renounce the claim coming from your reason? That’s one already. Surely that’s enough.”

Jehan shook their head. “I’m afraid we need both, my dear, or Madeleine would still be your child. I wouldn’t let you deal with this alone, so it’s best we wait.”

Bahorel’s hand came to rest on their shoulder, just above Madeleine’s tiny, sleeping head. “Thank you,” he smiled, “my dear.” Jehan beamed at him. Using pet names was a habit for Jehan, but Bahorel was more cautious with them. Rather, one might say he was . Bahorel was liberal with terms of endearment; Feuilly was called “my old friend” more often than his name, Enjolras —much to his chagrin— often became “chief”, and Jehan themself inherited a wide range of exuberant pet names. None of them held the quiet affection of “my dear”, however, and therein lay Bahorel’s cautiousness: he wore his extravagance as armour; simplicity revealed too much.

They were quiet for some time as Jehan worked at the weeds, and Bahorel watched them intently.

“Jehan, light of my life,” he interrupted with a flourish. Such were his usual nicknames. “What are your opinions on fucking in the moonlight? I’m sure I’ve heard Cosette talk about that; witches, sex out of doors and all that jazz.”

Jehan’s eyebrows rose at once. Had anyone asked them then, they wouldn’t have been able to deny that their train of thought had been frighteningly close to Bahorel’s; Jehan, as a rule, did not lie. Jehan, however, was also not in the habit of offering information that wasn’t prompted, so this specific bit of knowledge, we will keep to ourselves. Had anyone further asked them whether they thought they had a good grasp on the culture of other species, they would have likely said yes. This wouldn’t have been a lie, but rather a gross overestimation of their understanding of social interactions. 

Nevertheless, this specific question, in this setting, between old friends who have somewhat acknowledged that their feelings might not strictly qualify as “friendship” anymore? Any demon or human or creature well-versed enough in their cultures would have understood it for what it was: a proposition. This specific question, to Jehan’s green witch and socially clueless self, was nothing but another of their friend’s antics. They ignored that any other instance of said “antics” had long stopped being antics and  _ were _ , in fact, other propositions.

Jehan remained self-aware enough to recognise that the way Bahorel’s mind worked was largely incomprehensible to them. Nevertheless, just like his craft as a demon, Jehan had long accepted that however different they might be and however little they understood of their old friend, his ways were worth respecting. And so, although rather puzzled, Jehan shrugged and answered as sincerely as they would, were this any other question.

“My opinions are very positive on the matter. I haven’t partaken myself in a while, but I do remember it being very enjoyable,” they said, pulling at more weeds. “Help me weed this area? You want to take out the ones with the little leaves.” 

Bahorel grunted but complied wordlessly. Had Jehan turned to observe him, they would have noticed his deep frown. As it happens, they didn’t, but only moved slightly away from the demon to reach for more grass, careful not to jostle the still sleeping Madeleine on their back.

The next few minutes were spent in silence, only briefly broken by some inquiries about the arduous task at hand and their following responses. This time, Jehan did watch, sneaking glances at Bahorel, who was focused. He was pulling at the weeds seriously, with a bit more force than strictly necessary —though that was the way Bahorel did most things. They looked on fondly, and by the time they reached the honeysuckle, they had made a decision. If they were both to live together for the coming weeks, Jehan would be truthful. 

Pulling a knife from the pocket of their dress, they cut some of the honeysuckle before standing up.

“I’ll be back,” they said, and promptly disappeared amidst the jungle that formed their garden. They weren’t long and quickly returned with more flowers, the sorts of which Bahorel would never have been able to identify but we believe relevant to tell you were tulips and fuchsias. Some foliage framed the bouquet nicely, and Jehan shyly presented it to Bahorel.

“There,” they said. Bahorel stared at the proffered flowers, thoroughly confused, but took it anyway. It goes without saying that flower language wasn’t any sort of language the demon would be fluent in, were he even aware of its existence. Eager as he was, it was thus a shame he couldn’t sense the devotion that wafted from the honeysuckle’s sweet scent, nor read the declaration of humble love from the colourful petals of the tulip and fuchsia blooms.

“Um… thanks? They’ll look good in your kitchen. I’ll go put them in water.”

With that, he stood, brushed off the dirt from his trousers, and walked to the cottage, leaving Jehan feeling lost amongst their plants to sigh wistfully. 

* * *

Jehan rarely hummed to themself; rather, they recited poems, voice low, letting the wind carry their words as it wished. This particular quirk of theirs was private. They read out poetry often enough after Les Amis meetings and were always glad to have an audience, but this, this was only theirs. This is why they quieted when they entered their cottage, returning from picking apricots to make jam. 

Bahorel was on his stomach, sprawled across the carpet, playing with Madeleine. So engrossed was he that he barely even noticed Jehan’s arrival. When they dropped their heavy basket by the now wilted bouquet on the main table, Bahorel turned to them, a wide smile stretching under his beard.

“Pumpkin! Did you know it’s good to make faces at babies?” he asked, focusing once more on the child, his grin still in place. “Helps with their social and emotional development,” he added, voice strained by his exaggerated smile.

“Does it, now?” Jehan said, raising an amused eyebrow.

Bahorel scrunched up his nose. “Yep, t’was in one of the books Cosette dropped here last week. Marius said I should read it.” He made a cooing noise. “Come and try!”

Leaving their apricots, Jehan joined him on the carpet and sat down, crossing their legs. When Madeleine’s attention flickered to the newcomer, they brought a hand to her, smoothing down the thin tufts of her brown hair.

“She really likes you,” said Jehan, their gaze fixed on the baby.

“Well, she’s pretty ok herself, when she doesn’t try to pull my beard. Now give her a smile.”

Jehan complied, giving a wide smile to Madeleine who stared back intently, though showing very little reaction. “Is this normal? Is she supposed to do something?”

“Just try something else. She’s still getting used to it. And she might be all socialed out already.” Bahorel waved them off kindly. “Come on, try this.” 

Bahorel stuck out his tongue, and Jehan followed suit, sneaking a glance to their right to watch their friend’s expression. They were luckier this time, for Madeleine’s mouth opened and worked, poking out the end of a tongue and an impressive amount of drool.

“See! She did it!” Bahorel exclaimed, clapping a hand on Jehan’s thigh —the only thing he could reach from his crawling position. Jehan was glad he’d only struck their thigh and not their shoulder or back as he usually did, or they might have toppled over entirely. It had been known to happen on multiple occasions. Bahorel was only ever apologetic when it was Jehan he roughed up more strongly than necessary; the others got a laugh and a jest, even Enjolras. Grantaire and Eponine were the only ones strong enough not to wobble at all. Selkies and gorgons were made of a sturdier stock: one was the cape, the other was the rock. Together, they were used to holding their own against the wreck and the blind anger of the elements. Life and love had given them much grief, yet, they were immuable. 

Bahorel pulled another face at Madeleine, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes, but the child had already lost patience. She ignored him in favour of stuffing her fingers inside her mouth, narrowly missing her eyes with her newborn coordination. Instead, Bahorel turned to Jehan, sticking his tongue out to them. 

“Are you saying I need to develop my social skills?” They laughed.

“No, I think you’re a hopeless case!”

Jehan gasped in mock outrage and stuck a brazen tongue out at Bahorel. “See? I can learn, too, scoundrel.” 

“My bad, my bad,” said Bahorel, lifting his hands in submission, laughter thick in his voice. 

Madeleine cut him out with a shriek, and he reached out to press one of the soft toys that were crowding her. The shrill voice of the recording started singing, to the baby’s delight. Bahorel sighed.

“You know, when I bought all these musical toys, it was with the clear aim of making someone  _ else’s _ life hell. I didn’t think I’d be the one suffering through ‘Il court il court le furet’ all day long!”

“You do know you don’t have to turn them on all the time, right? She’s still too young to be using them by herself,” Jehan pointed out.

“But they’re good for her development!” Bahorel protested loudly, startling Madeleine. “Oh, sorry, baby,” he said, apologetic as he gave her tummy a light pet.

Jehan laughed. Forethought had never been Bahorel’s strong suit, and they always felt equally sorry and amused whenever his “evil” plans backfired. They somehow found it charming and their chest felt impossibly warm to know that he always came to them to help him fix whatever had turned against him. They were proud of the trust he placed in them and were sure never to fail him.

A new voice interrupted, surprising Jehan.

“Well, whose eyes do I have to poke to get some scrambled eggs?” Russell asked from where he now perched in the kitchen.

With all the visits from Jehan’s friends, discussing memories, going through old photos in hope of sparking something,  _ anything, _ Russell had made himself fairly scarce in the past two weeks. He only really came back to greet Cosette when she and Marius came to see their daughter, or Grantaire if he ever came on his own. Apart from that, he stayed well away from the cottage and returned once Jehan was alone with Bahorel and Madeleine. He was grudgingly coming to accept both their company.

“Don’t need to poke any eyes, my friend. It’s good to see you!” Jehan said, pushing themself up to greet their familiar. Bahorel stayed behind, only waving at the crow from his spot before returning his attention to Madeleine.

“It’s been a bit crowded for my taste recently,” Russell explained. “I see you’ve been keeping busy with the demon?”

“Very,” Jehan agreed heartily while getting the ingredients and a pan out. Russell croaked in amusement. “Not like that…”

“Ha, you wish, don't you?” Russell singsonged gleefully. Or rather, he might have, had he been able to, but only a strangled squawk came out; as a rule, crows were terrible singers, and Russell was worse than most.

“I can still refrain from cooking you lunch…” they said, though they both knew their threat to be empty.

True enough, Russell was presented with half of the eggs a few moments later. Jehan kept making conversation as the familiar ate, and he oddly didn’t comment on the other plate they set out. Jehan knew Russell wouldn’t miss an opportunity to tease them, but what were they to do? Bahorel always got peckish around that time of the day.

Halfway through his meal, the crow turned his attention towards Bahorel. He had sat up, but he kept playing and talking to Madeleine, now nestled in his arms. 

“How sweet is this little Madeleine? I could just eat her! Like a real madeleine! They picked your name right, you sweet, sweet child,” he said, cooing over the child. It was quite the darling image, if only for—

“You sure this demon is ok to be around? He sure talks a lot about eating this half-human child,” said Russell, beak now covered in eggs.

Jehan tutted with little heat. They had warned him to watch his words at the beginning, but antagonising was Russell’s main way of showing affection. His and Bahorel’s teasing was slowly morphing into an old joke between good friends.

“Bahorel, could you bring Madeleine for a moment?” they asked; it was close to Madeleine’s nap time and she would be impossible to put to sleep with Bahorel’s excited babbles.

“Of course you can have the sweet little Madeleine!” he said, standing with remarkable agility while holding the baby and simultaneously kissing both her cheeks. 

When he reached the kitchen, he seemed somewhat reluctant to let go of his protégée. This didn’t last too long, however; Jehan pointed towards his plate of eggs. “For you.”

“You’re the  _ best, _ cupcake,” Bahorel sighed happily. He handed them Madeleine before taking a seat at the table and throwing himself into devouring his food. While Jehan rocked the baby with great care and gentleness, they ran another hand through Madeleine’s brown curls; she gave a shadow of a toothless smile. Maybe Bahorel was onto something indeed.

“She loves getting her hair pet, the kitten. She gets that from me,” Jehan joked.

“You do?” Bahorel asked, with more interest than someone trying to hide their feelings for a friend would show. But then again, as you well know by now, Bahorel was hardly trying to hide anything.

“Mhmm. The only thing stopping me from purring when I get my hair pet is that the only purring spell I know is a  _ pain _ to cast. Really not worth it.”

“Shame,” commented Bahorel, wolfing down the last of his eggs. “I’ll be back, need to take a leak.”

“Charming,” said Russell as Bahorel left the room flipping, well… the bird to the crow. When Bahorel was out of earshot, he added to Jehan: “Make sure you count all her toes. You can never be too careful.”

* * *

Jean Prouvaire, more commonly known as Jehan, was many things; incredibly short was one of them. As a result, most of the things they owned were what could only be called Jehan-sized, though Courfeyrac-sized might have fit as well. This fact, combined with Bahorel’s towering two metre something-height, had certainly made his experience of living with Jehan an interesting one, and Jehan’s experience an amusing one.

This day’s happenings, come to think of it, should have probably come much sooner. With Bahorel’s exhibitionist streak and Jehan’s lack of almost anything regularly sized, this really should have occurred before. The occupants of this particular cottage should also have been ready for this. Yet, nothing really prepared Jehan, Russell, nor Maurice for Bahorel to come barging out of the bathroom, long hair and beard dripping wet on his bare torso, a towel  _ much _ too short for him barely wrapped around his hips. As it was, he had to hold it closed at the waist and even then, it did  _ nothing _ to hide  _ anything. _

“Oh no! Stab me in the eyes!” Russell cried from where he stood on Maurice’s forehead. This couldn’t have bothered the crow too much, for he remained where he was, and Russell never had any scruple in flying away from a situation that made him uncomfortable. 

Jehan would have thus correctly concluded this was now friendly banter between their familiar and their friend, had Jehan themself not been distracted by the sight. They diverted their gaze with equal parts hurry and reluctance, but the deed had been done and that image would be branded in their mind for as long as they lived. What would remain in Russell’s mind was the clearly disappointed look that crossed Bahorel’s face then. He let out a noise that would have been a snort, had he not been a crow;  _ the fools. _

“Anyone arrived yet?” Bahorel asked, making no move to settle the towel better nor leave the room to get changed.

“N— not yet,” Jehan choked out, pretending to be busy with the cheese platter they had just finished setting up; anything to help them recover a semblance of composure.

See, if Jehan barely reacted to Bahorel’s very obvious advances, it certainly wasn’t for lack of attraction or interest. For all of their social cluelessness, they were, in fact, acutely aware of Bahorel’s physique. Bahorel was tall and wide and strong, all things Jehan themself weren’t and were impossibly attractive to them. Presently, Bahorel also happened to be virtually  _ naked _ , and Jehan wasn’t strong enough a person not to be affected. 

Madeleine’s increasingly fussy noises provided a much welcome distraction. The ruckus had woken her up from her nap and she had started to squirm from where she was wrapped against Jehan’s chest with her face tucked in their neck. She was thankfully facing away from Bahorel. Jehan shushed her, rocking on their feet to soothe her back to sleep. The weight of her was now comfortable and oddly grounding, when Jehan’s legs still felt rather weak.

“They should be here any ti—”

The front door opened suddenly, Marius rushing in.

“Oh shit, Bahorel! Just hide your— your junk,  _ fuck _ !” he shouted, bringing a hand to cover his eyes. Jehan startled; the instances of Marius Pontmercy swearing in public could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

“Don’t swear in front of the baby!” Bahorel protested hotly, marching to Jehan to cover Madeleine’s ears. Jehan whimpered, pointedly looking up to the few spider webs covering their ceiling. Bahorel might have heard them, but Russell commented:

“Oh come on! I think it’s lovely! Good size and shape; really nothing to throw a tantrum about, Pontmercy.”

“Damn  _ right  _ it is,” Bahorel said, lifting a large hand for a high five before remembering his friend didn’t, in fact, have a hand to reciprocate with. The treacherous towel used this opportunity to slide further down and Bahorel, who only liked one thing better than making people uncomfortable, gave his hips a wiggle — there was  _ nothing  _ in this world that Bahorel liked more than making  _ Marius  _ uncomfortable, except perhaps Jehan themself.

“Please, I beg of you, go get dressed,” Marius whined.

“Alright, alright,” the demon said, giving a soft parting pat on Madeleine’s cheek.

“Where is Cosette?” Jehan asked in a valiant effort to divert the room’s attention from Bahorel’s nudity as he departed, the towel now gaping open to a glorious sight of his behind.

“She’ll be here in a minute; she said she wanted to feel the energy in the garden, I don’t know. It smells nice, I guess, but I don’t get it. I just roll with it,” said Marius with a shrug.

Jehan barely refrained at all from scoffing,  _ don’t get it _ … 

Nevertheless, true to Marius’ word, Cosette entered shortly after, immediately rushing to her daughter. She nestled on the sofa, Jehan by her side, right hand playing with Madeleine’s tiny foot.

By the time Bahorel returned fully dressed, damp hair up, most of Les Amis had already arrived and settled on every possible surface. He showed them around, gave glasses, drinks, and food to whoever needed with a surprisingly small amount of mischief before he joined Jehan, sitting at the spot which had been left free by their friends. 

“Here, some tea for you. I don’t think I brewed it right,” Bahorel explained, handing a steaming mug to Jehan. They thanked him with a bright smile and did their best to hide a wince when they took a sip; it was much too hot for green tea, completely over brewed and bitter for it, but it filled Jehan with a warmth that couldn’t be fully attributed to their drink. If any of Les Amis noticed this interaction, no one pointed it out —a feat quite exceptional amongst their nosy friends.

“Attention, everyone,” Enjolras cut through the idle chatting and catching up, standing up from his seat on the méridienne. All eyes turned to him, voices lowering instantly. “Thanks for having us all here for the meeting, Jehan and Bahorel,” he continued, and Jehan flushed with pleasure at the idea of  _ Bahorel _ having them over, too. This came as a soft epiphany to Jehan who, for all that they loved their friends, had always been quite content with their own solitary living arrangements. 

Enjolras introduced today’s goal; all of their usual agenda had been unanimously postponed to focus on returning Madeleine to her parents. He only went off on one tangent about a pro werewolf rights protest they’d be missing —Enjolras had never been great at picking his battles, or  _ fewer _ battles, as it was. It was quickly decided they should break off into groups, bring up memories, and switch groups every so often. 

Feuilly and Joly approached the sofa, engaging with Jehan, Bahorel and one of Joly’s scrapbooking albums from their last trip to Brittany. No useful memory came up, though they thoroughly enjoyed a picture of Grantaire as a seal, happy to splash in the surf, as well as one of the back of Bossuet’s bald head, unfortunately painted with sunscreen to form a smiley face. Bossuet having fallen asleep in the sun, his odd tan had remained for a good three weeks.

Groups moved, formed, and dissolved throughout the evening. Jehan finished their bitter tea without leaving Madeleine’s side, and Bahorel wordlessly went for a refill for the witch, this one singularly better; they suspected Grantaire to have helped out. Upon return, the demon settled by Jehan once more, shoulder pressed tight against theirs. Without a spare glance to Jehan, he joined in on Musichetta’s hilarious retelling of Cosette’s father’s experience at the wedding dress shop Cosette and her bridespeople had gone to. 

Bahorel was mid-laugh, head thrown back and eyes shut in mirth, when his hand slipped from where it rested dangerously close to Jehan’s thigh to weave its way into their hair. His fingers tangled easily in their locks, scratching their scalp; Bahorel spoke to the group, going on with a memory of his own. 

Jehan, who had only just barely managed not to squeak or freeze too noticeably, contributed very little to the conversation. After a while and a few long pets that reached down to their neck, they even struggled to keep track of who they were now talking to. As their eyes flickered close and they gave up on any sort of pretence in participating in the conversation, Jehan thought idly that the purring spell might not even be necessary.

  
  


* * *

Jehan’s business simply had to resume. All their research in the past few weeks had remained unsuccessful, and everyone’s frustration was growing. Moreover, Jehan’s customers were getting increasingly impatient, and, truth be told, they were starting to miss their work themself. 

Bahorel, who had even stopped complaining about baby poop at this point, was glad to support their decision. He would look after Madeleine while they worked and go through yet another photo album when she slept; he liked that arrangement. Jehan was scared to admit quite how much they enjoyed it as well. Bahorel, when he wasn’t setting up pranks, was a surprisingly polite and well-behaved housemate. When a customer knocked, he’d greet them with his usual loud demeanour but also kept a respectful distance; he made as polite a conversation as his natural cheek allowed him to and gave privacy whenever it seemed like it might be needed.

Jehan’s regulars mostly seemed to take the new presence in stride and very few even dared to comment on the demon playing with a baby on Jehan’s sofa while they worked their spells and brewed their potions. This was just as well, as the witch rarely cared about what anyone might think of their life choices. 

New customers, though much fewer, weren’t quite as careful on the matter. They were obviously unaware of the novelty of the situation.

The wood nymph, Eglantine, who currently sat at Jehan’s table nursing a warm cup of hibiscus tea (“cousins, but I don’t mind. I hate these pretentious, flowery assholes”, she’d shrugged off) drummed her gnarly and wooden fingers against the table. She looked thoughtful but kind, making idle chatter with Jehan as they ground calendula stems and blueberries together.

“How long will this take?” she asked, pointing at the cauldron happily bubbling away.

“The preparation itself should take about a dozen minutes more, but it will need to simmer for about a half hour. You could wait it out in the garden, if you want? It’s lovely,” Jehan said, scraping the content of their mortar into the thick potion.

“It is,” she smiled. “I’d like to be better acquainted with it.”

Jehan smiled; they loved when their garden was praised. Compliments on their gardening skills were quite insignificant to them, but they were always glad to see their garden’s hard work acknowledged. Coming from a nymph, Jehan was confident they were on the same page. 

They discussed the variety of plants Eglantine might find later —some just so happened to be relatives— while the witch worked, stirring clockwise one, two, three times, adding essences of this, sprinkles of that. They were counting drops of motherwort oil when Bahorel approached, Madeleine strapped tightly to his chest, her head resting just under his beard. He walked to sink to help himself some water, never stopping singing as he went, though the baby already looked fast asleep.

“Dodo, l’enfant do, l’enfant dormira bien vite…” His voice was terribly off key, very low and crackling around the edges, but Jehan wasn’t too surprised Madeleine found it soothing anyway. Bahorel also rested one of his bear-sized hands on the back of her small head; he radiated a softness Jehan had never seen in him before, not before Madeleine, anyway. They lost count of the motherwort. 

“Fuck…” they said under their breath, just low enough that Bahorel wouldn’t hear and tease him for swearing in front of the child. He’d become quite careful about it.

If the warmth and amusement in her expression were anything to go by, Eglantine must have heard anyway. She smiled at Jehan and asked: “Is this your husband?”

“I wish!” Bahorel answered from where he’d come to rest against the table, grin wide on his face and keeping a soft rocking motion to his chest.

To their credit, Jehan only froze for a split second, their meticulous stirring keeping the façade of a concentration they most definitely hadn’t had since Bahorel’s entrance. They weren’t sure they duped anyone. For all that they knew about the demon’s usual activity, they also knew him not to be cruel, not to them anyway; surely, this joke was merely unfortunate. Or was it? Jehan was quite lost as to what to think of their relationship with him. They had been dancing a thin line between friendship and  _ something else _ for a very long time; long enough that they were now scared to move this much forward. This situation scared them. They were, as a rule, rather shy, and worked on strong impulse only occasionally. No matter the impasse they found themselves in, Jehan had yet to find such an impulse and Bahorel, who, while nothing but impulsive, seemed equally frozen in their current ways. Maybe he didn’t want to? For a while, Jehan had been convinced there was some sort of quiet understanding between them, but now, their certainty wavered.

Jehan huffed a laugh in response; it sounded very unconvincing to their own ear. “Ha, funny business, that. We’ve somehow both ended up as caretakers of the child. Bahorel is stuck here until we figure out how to fix it.”

_ Stir twice counter-clockwise, once clockwise, thrice counter-clockwise again. _ Their gaze remained resolutely down, fixed on their work, even and especially when Bahorel left to pace around the kitchen. 

“It’s done. Now it only needs to simmer for thirty minutes,” they told Eglantine, happy to steer the conversation to safer waters. “You should go see the garden, I’m sure they’ll all be glad to meet you.”

The nymph hummed, eyes flickering between the witch and the demon for a second; she nodded. “Good idea! I’ll be back, then.”

Bahorel remained uncharacteristically silent long after the door shut behind Eglantine. He swayed, sang some more, only stopping to grab cookies to snack on. Jehan had made them the day before, making sure to bake them with three chocolates —Bahorel’s favourite. Still, he said no more than some soothing coos to Madeleine for very long minutes, and Jehan, who was still trying to comprehend the situation, didn’t attempt any conversation either. 

“I don’t feel stuck here, you know?”

Jehan startled. “Good?” Their answer came more as a question.

Bahorel sighed; he seemed at war with his thoughts and his tongue, what to say, what to hide. He was not typically one for heart-to-hearts, but he also looked weary. “You know it’s more than that, right?” he finally asked, earnest.

“You really love Madeleine, I know,” said Jehan, finally turning towards the demon, resting their back against the table.

“No! I mean, yes, obviously, but…” Jehan had never seen their friend quite so frazzled. He was usually all brashness and bluntness; this was unsettling. For all of their social cluelessness, Jehan knew that this was different. This was them seriously approaching that fine line they had never crossed, though they weren’t sure they were fully ready for it yet; not with Madeleine, not with their search for the memory still on-going. Still, the witch was starting to feel it, an inkling of one of their rare impulses.

“So, marriage, huh?” they said, with no finesse nor eloquence. This, too, was very unlike Jehan, to whom words always came naturally, though this was mostly true on paper, a quill in their hand —they were, in fact, aware of the existence of ballpoint pens, or even of fountain pens, but they liked the dramatic flair that came with a quill.

“Hmm, yes? Would be nice, I guess?” The uncertainty and seriousness in Bahorel’s voice was jarring, but Jehan didn’t point that out. Something was happening, something that clearly went beyond what the two of them were ready to embrace right this moment, with what was technically  _ their _ child, in  _ their _ home with a client who was currently walking through their —well, walking through  _ a _ garden, since it didn’t exactly belong to Jehan in the first place.

“Wait here for a second?” 

Bahorel nodded in agreement, though he seemed confused. His confusion, as you might imagine, only grew when Jehan quickly returned from the shelf in which they’d been scavenging. In their hands was a beetle. It was long dead and dry, though it had managed to maintain its shine. It really wasn’t as disgusting as one might expect, but there was the crux of the problem: a beetle was unexpected, even from Jehan.

“Marriage could be nice,” they said by means of explanation, offering the insect reverently; though really, they should have known better after their poorly received attempt at flower language. Had they realised that there was no chance in hell or any other place for Bahorel to understand the obvious declaration of love that one could hide in a tulip, they might have known Bahorel would never guess the vow of eternity that a beetle held.

The demon frowned, jaw slack. “Um, what?”

“It’s for you,” Jehan said meaningfully. 

Bahorel didn’t seem any closer to reaching any sort of conclusion. “Am I supposed to eat it? I know some people eat dry insects. It’s supposed to be okay, and I’ll confess, I’ve always been a little curious.”

“Of course you’re not supposed to eat it!” Jehan protested hotly. How dare he be so insensitive? “I thought—”

A timer Jehan had forgotten they’d set went off. Sure enough, their potion had now turned into a clear pale blue. Time being of the essence with such finicky draughts, the witch dropped whatever they were about to say to remove their cauldron from the fire.

When she returned shortly after, Eglantine found them in this state, Jehan flustered and upset, busy filling vials of the potion, Bahorel staring dumbly at their back, frozen where he stood, one hand holding Madeleine, another holding the green beetle.

Jehan was glad to finally hand the vials to the nymph, anxious to head to the garden themself to find some peace of mind.

“I was wondering about something else; do you have a spell to protect bark? There’s been quite a lot of termites lately, and they itch like nobody’s business.”

The witch only just refrained from heaving a sigh and went to reach for their oldest grimoire. What with their extensive library and research material, it had been a while since they’d last opened this particular spell book. They sneezed from the dust that fell off the cover.

“Give me a moment, I’m sure there’s something for you in there,” they explained, flipping the pages, skimming through them expertly.

Pages turned and turned until suddenly, Jehan stilled; they might have met the gaze of a gorgon. Bahorel snapped out of his own torpor, alarmed. Jehan’s eyes widened, their mouth opened, and they bent over, bringing their face closer to the musty tome, as if this could have made them read faster. For several long moments, their eyes skipped over the words again and again, taking them in.

“Bahorel, I know how to fix it.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: as you've seen if you've made it this far, Jehan is well-versed in flower language and they use it, too. In flower language, cosmos mean "joy in love and life", so when they tell Bahorel they'd love to turn into a cosmos bloom, they're confessing they wish to be happy in love and life! How convenient that they'd say that to Bahorel, huh?
> 
> Also, shout out to Jillian Rose for suggesting the Russell the Crow singing joke. It gave me a good chuckle!


	3. A Spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! 
> 
> I've gotta thank [Elia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendresettroubles/pseuds/tendresettroubles) once more for all her help and her screaming at me and screaming with me! 
> 
> One last massive thank you to [cantando-siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre), [merelydovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely/pseuds/merelydovely) and [demourir](https://demourir.tumblr.com) for beta'ing this story!
> 
> And thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic! It means a lot, I hope you enjoyed it!

“Did one of you remember?” Cosette pressed as soon as she arrived.

The whole of Les Amis had been summoned —“ _ texted, Jehan. We’re texting them, not using a summoning circle _ ”— immediately after Eglantine’s departure. Most of them had been able to make it and people now piled inside Jehan’s cottage. They all buzzed with a nervous energy and were frighteningly quiet; a group as large and exuberant as them simply never achieved complete silence, not even when they had sleepovers —Bossuet, Bahorel and Gavroche snored, Enjolras ground his teeth, and Grantaire could have entire conversations in his sleep.

“No,” Bahorel said; Cosette immediately deflated.

“But we found a way for us to remember,” Jehan explained. 

“Well,  _ you _ did, sugarplum,” Bahorel corrected, and though Jehan grinned, they mostly ignored him in favour of shushing Madeleine, who was waking up in Marius’ lap.

“How?” Combeferre asked from his seat on the plush carpet. 

Jehan pulled the spell book from their lap and held it out to their friends, though, in virtue of Cosette being a witch and Marius a language nerd, only the two of them could understand the language it was written in. 

“I found a spell to navigate memories, including repressed and forgotten ones. Whatever happened for Bahorel to be promised Madeleine, we obviously forgot it.”

“So you cast the spell on Bahorel and we’re good?” Bossuet said. “Sounds almost too easy.”

“That’s because it won’t be that easy. The spell will take a while to get ready.”

“How long?” Enjolras asked. “Is there any way we can help and speed the process?” 

Jehan shook their head. “Unless you’ve been drying rosemary and had it pressed under hematite crystals for nine days, then no. Also, the moon needs to be waxing gibbous.”

Enjolras nodded in understanding.

“I don’t think casting it on Bahorel will be enough, though,” Jehan continued. “Madeleine was promised to me by Marius through Grantaire, but I didn’t know it. What if it’s the same thing with Bahorel?”

“So we’re not sure this will work,” Musichetta said dejectedly.

“No. I think our best bet would be to cast the spell on everyone.  _ Someone _ among us will remember.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Grantaire pointed out. “Maybe she was promised through someone who isn’t part of Les Amis.” Jehan conceded that point with a nod. Skeptic and argumentative as he may be, Grantaire usually made valid points, and Jehan could also sense he was trying not to raise everyone’s hope. There was indeed a chance they might not find the right memory, even with the help of the spell.

“It’s still our best chance,” Enjolras countered.

“And our only lead,” Combeferre said helpfully. “How long until you can get the spell ready, then?”

“By next Saturday. So hopefully, this should all finally be over in two weeks.”

Marius gasped and clutched at Cosette’s arm; her own eyes were shining with tears of relief. “ _ Two weeks _ ,” they whispered at one another. Everyone beamed at them.  _ Finally _ , the young parents would properly reunite with their daughter. They’d be able to watch their baby grow day after day and never miss a bit: a first smile, a first word, her teething, her crying, her crawling. 

Some teared up and all smiled except for Bahorel, who froze then stood up with a jerk from the table he’d been sitting on.

“I need a smoke,” he huffed, before heading for the door.

Madeleine, who had been getting fussier with the thrumming excitement of the room, started whining. Bahorel steeled his shoulders and schooled his face in as neutral a mask as he could manage, walking on. This wasn’t nearly as successful as he would have wished; his face was an expressive one and, for all that he was a demon, Bahorel had never been a good liar. As he reached the door, he looked back, evidently unable to help himself, and the glance he stole at the squirming child held something painful. He banged the door shut behind himself.

* * *

  
  


“Cette chanson douce, je veux la chanter aussi,” Jehan sang softly as Bahorel rocked Madeleine against his chest. “Pour toi, ô ma douce, jusqu’à la fin de ma vie.” 

Her eyes had closed long ago and, the music slowing to a stop, Bahorel set the baby down in her crib. He looked reluctant to let go. 

“Jusqu’à la fin de ma vie.” Jehan sang the last line with a bittersweet taste in their mouth. Bahorel’s voice, who had joined for the very end of the song, was choked off with emotion. Jehan wisely refrained from commenting on it, but they brought a hand to his shoulder and squeezed, trying to provide support and comfort they didn’t feel in themself. With no more word, they both kissed the child goodnight and left the room, shutting the door carefully behind them.

In the living room, they promptly fell into the routine they hadn’t realised had been born after nights and nights of companionship. Jehan sat on the sofa with a book or a diary in which they wrote while Bahorel fixed them two mugs of herbal tea, both of which Jehan would inevitably end up drinking when the demon remembered after two or three sips that he did not, in fact, like herbal tea. Then he joined Jehan and busied himself on his phone, in turn watching videos, playing games, and trolling nazis on the internet. They talked sometimes, and all but dropped their occupation of choice that night. Jehan’s quiet demeanour lit up in animation under the comfortable scrutiny of Bahorel, their body always pulled towards his as they listened to him ramble about this or that. Some other nights, they remained in comforting silence, sitting as close as they dared, quietly taking in the presence of the other.

On the nights they talked, the room was thick with a sort of buzzing passion, one that only a steady love born out of friendship can bring about; on their quiet nights, there was only peace and belonging.

That night, they didn’t talk. But that night, there was no peace to be found: only dried rosemary, crystals ready, and a looming moon over their heads — a moon that would be just right by the following evening.

Bahorel was stiff on the sofa; he hadn’t even taken a single sip of his tea and though he looked at his phone, his hands, completely still, betrayed him. His expression was dark, a frown deep on his forehead. He reminded Jehan of a wounded animal; his pain gave him both a vulnerable yet threatening air, and were anyone to touch him, he was just as likely to lash out as he was to crumble. That is, were anyone but Jehan. Jehan’s touch would always be welcome to Bahorel, though this knowledge flickered in and out of their consciousness after random bursts of hope or disappointment.

Both out of respect for his privacy and out of shyness, Jehan first said nothing. They read on and, out of the corner of their eyes, snuck glances at him who sat straight as a rod, a stark contrast to his usual slouch. Bahorel’s eyes remained unfocused, even when the witch finally reached for their own phone. They could feel the telltale pull in their gut; this was one of their occasional impulses. Jehan started a low and slow song on the bluetooth speaker the demon had brought with him a few weeks prior. Bahorel blinked when Alain Bashung’s voice flooded the room, although he only moved when Jehan laid a careful and soft hand on one of his. 

With gentle movements, they took his phone and left it where they had sat a few seconds before. They seized his hands, enveloped them as fully as they could and pulled him to his feet. Bahorel, though he looked thoroughly confused, followed without protest.

“Dance with me?” 

Bahorel opened his mouth and shut it again, choking on words. “I can’t dance for shit.”

“Me neither,” Jehan shrugged.

Both statements were absolutely correct. Amongst their group of friends, these two, along with Enjolras, were easily the worst dancers. Shimmying was just about doable for them and, really, the knowledge that even Bossuet was a more competent dancer than the both of them combined was quite humiliating, but nothing could be done. Grantaire —how the selkie had such an excellent command of his legs and entire body was quite above them, but he was somehow and unequivocally the most graceful of them all— had tried to teach the both of them before the Pontmercy wedding, to no avail. Bahorel’s sense of rhythm remained pitifully nonexistent, as did Jehan’s coordination.

Jehan, however, did not care much for their obvious incompetence in this field; they never had before and they certainly didn’t now. Instead, they wrapped their arms around Bahorel’s waist, for he was too tall for them to reach his neck, pulled him to them gently, so as not to scare the fearful beast away, and started swaying. 

We know not what Bahorel was expecting but, whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t  _ this _ . He froze for a while, but Jehan only tightened their hold on him, stepping clumsily, one slow foot to the other. After a beat that felt all too long to Jehan and frighteningly close to a dream to Bahorel, his arms, which had been hanging by his sides in surprise, lifted to fold over Jehan’s shoulders. When they neither pulled back nor stiffened, but rather  _ burrowed _ themself against his heart, he squeezed. Their face, which wasn’t quite high enough to settle in his neck, landed on his chest; he let his chin rest on their head.

Thusly embraced, they swayed. Bashung crooned in the air, sang about barefooted brides, vows in the wind, wise stars and burning veils; these two held onto each other tightly, so tightly. Bahorel kept Jehan upright, Jehan kept Bahorel to the beat. They listened; they listened to the song slowly dying into another, just as soft, and another, and another, delicate cocoons of music wrapping around them. They listened to each other’s breathing, to the life of the night streaming out from the open window. Perhaps they were not great dancers, but they swayed and, really, they shared all that should be shared in a dance with a lover.

Neither of them could say quite how long they stepped this way, forming slow circles, but it must have been long enough for Jehan’s playlist to come to an end, for their careful dance was suddenly broken by a radical change of music. 

Jehan burst out laughing against Bahorel’s chest; he pulled back, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s Icelandic,” Jehan laughed. They really did love this song, its upbeat tempo and joyful vibe, even if they didn’t understand a word of it. Though a terrible dancer they might be, they also thoroughly enjoyed the activity. They wiggled their hips and stopped only to shrug to the rhythm —both at the same time were indeed quite an impossible feat for Jehan. 

Bahorel, whose face was still twisted in a comical mask of surprise, erupted in laughter. To say he laughed would not be quite truthful; the demon gave a deep bellied howl, one that raked through his entire body, lifting from his stomach and throwing his head back. His eyes were closed in mirth and he held his chest in hilarity. Jehan did not stop dancing, if dancing is what we choose to call it. They kept moving their arms and knees awkwardly in vague tentacle-like motions and looked mighty pleased to see their friend laughing. This wasn’t exactly how they had intended to cheer him up, but they couldn’t find it in themself to feel disappointed, not with this new beautiful sound joining in for the chorus.

Eventually, the song ended and, with it, Bahorel’s laughter and Jehan’s peculiar swing of their hips. They stopped the music.

“Um, wasn’t planning on that one,” they said sheepishly.

“Sure surprised me!”

“Well, it made you laugh, so it can’t have been too bad?” 

“It wasn’t,” Bahorel agreed.

“We should probably go to bed; busy day tomorrow.” Bahorel deflated at the mention of the coming day, and Jehan could feel their own wilder streak, their brave outburst dying down, but not quite yet. “How about you spend your last night here comfortably, to sweeten the deal?”

The demon raised a curious eyebrow; he seemed equally embarrassed at the idea to have been so obvious in his disappointment and surprised by Jehan’s offer. They did not back down, attempting to look more certain than they felt. Bahorel’s eyes dragged down to what had been his makeshift bed.

Jehan’s sofa was the only uncharacteristically large piece of furniture they owned. They had chosen it specifically to accommodate their friends whenever they gathered at the cottage. It was thus not as dire a sleeping situation as Bahorel might have had. Nevertheless, almost two months spent on a sofa was never good on one’s back, even if said sofa was long enough that only one’s feet dangled from the edge of it. 

Bahorel nodded. “Not how I thought I’d first share your bed, darling mine, but I’ll take it.” He left the room before Jehan could fully register what he had just said, entering the bedroom they were sharing with Madeleine. Jehan, who had stayed behind in shock, found that their bravery had truly abandoned them for the night. Bahorel’s departure was also a clear indication that whatever conversation was needed to be had would not happen that night. They sighed; they were weary. Besides, they hadn’t lied; the spell was a hard one to perform, especially on such a large group. They needed to rest. Conversations could wait.

They followed him inside and quickly checked on Madeleine, still blissfully asleep. Bahorel had already shed his clothes down to his underwear —the extent of his pyjamas; he usually slept in the nude— and was now standing awkwardly by the bed. Jehan, who had gotten ready for bed hours ago, slipped under the covers before opening the edge of them to Bahorel, a beacon of welcome.

He joined them carefully, but his heavy weight jostled the bed and indented Jehan’s old mattress, making them slide closer. The movement brought them face to face; time suspended for a second as they searched for each other in the dark. Jehan ignored whether they were ready to find one another yet. 

Breaking the silence, Bahorel suddenly let out a frustrated huff. He seized the back of their head and brought his lips down to their forehead. The peck was somewhat softer than they had expected —Jehan had imagined this scenario many a time— but it shook them to their core. Still, they did not pull back, but rather mirrored what they had done during their dance; they scooted closer, happy to let Bahorel believe this was gravity’s work. When their face was all but tucked into his neck, Bahorel sighed. He didn’t sound so frustrated anymore, or maybe he did, but he also seemed quite content. 

“Good night,” he said in the dark. 

He lifted a solid arm and dropped it around Jehan’s waist, pinning them with a comforting weight they were sure they could happily get used to. They barely had the strength to return the words; they fell asleep. And so did they spend their first night together.

* * *

“So, let’s sum this up one last time,” Enjolras declared, “you cast the spell on all of us except for Eponine, who’ll keep an eye on Madeleine.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to join, Eponine?” Feuilly asked with a kind smile. “The more, the better, right?”

“I’m  _ very _ sure I don’t want to join,” she muttered caustically. Grantaire gave a sympathetic pat on her arm from where he sat next to her. “Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on the baby.”

Jehan nodded. “It might take up to several hours, so it’s better to have someone who really knows how to take care of a baby.” They suspected Eponine had an ulterior motive to hide her memories from the group. Regardless, they wouldn’t impose an invasive spell on anyone, and it was true; they did need someone to care for Madeleine. Eponine, who had all but raised her younger siblings, was undeniably the most qualified for the job.

“Alright, so you cast the spell, how long does it last?” Enjolras said.

“I think it could last up to six hours; mind you, I’ve never used it before, and there’s a lot of us. I’m also hoping we won’t need that long.”

Enjolras gave a serious nod. “What happens once we’re under the spell? How does it work?”

Jehan looked sheepish. “I’m not really sure,” they said. “I think we just… walk.”

“We walk?” 

“Yes. We won’t be able to choose the memories, they’ll just be there and we’ll have to walk through them.”

“So… privacy?” Grantaire asked, looking a little green around the gills.

“That means no privacy, I’m afraid. Obviously we can walk away from a memory, but we’ll still catch glimpses of it at the very least,” Jehan said. “That’s not all, we should also be able to sense the feelings and emotions the owner of the memory felt then.”

“So,  _ no  _ privacy,” the selkie repeated, seeming decidedly faint. Eponine let out a big sigh, likely one of relief.

Cosette interjected: “I know it’s a lot to ask of you guys, and you’re obviously allowed to back off… but Feuilly was right: the more people do it, the more likely we are to find that memory. And…” she trailed off, her voice small and eyes shiny. “I want to be able to raise my daughter.”

“We’ll do it,” Courfeyrac said, solemn. 

“Count me in,” agreed Joly. 

And just so, because Les Amis were always more of a family than they were friends, let alone fellow activists, they nodded and acquiesced one by one. They all agreed to volunteer their memories and feelings for the sake of the Pontmercys, including Grantaire who still appeared nauseous.

“Alright,” said Jehan. “Let’s do it.”

It took them some time to set things up, moving all the furniture to allow them all to sit down in a neat circle. It also cost Bahorel great deal to hand Madeleine to Eponine, and Jehan was glad to notice Feuilly squeeze the demon’s arm in sympathy when he did so. They set the supplies, readied the spell book and greeted Russell, who had come in to keep an eye on their bodies while they were under, “just in case”. Jehan smiled gratefully.

“Ready, everyone? Last chance to change your mind before I cast the spell.” Everyone shook their heads with resolve. “Let’s go, then.”

We shall not describe how Jehan cast their spell for several reasons. Firstly, witches are a rather private bunch. The spells, potions, magic and customs they have, they seldom share with their own kind, even more rarely with outsiders, unless it is part of their business. Out of respect for their tradition, we shall therefore abstain from describing what went on in that cottage. Secondly and perhaps foremost, there is no narrator who could truly convey the brilliance of Jehan that day, as they worked their magic with expertise, control and that odd brand radiance which characterised them. Any attempt to describe their craft that day could not possibly do them justice. We shall thus proceed and tell you what happened next.

Les Amis all blinked their eyes open. They hadn’t noticed they had closed them, but the flutter of their eyelids told them they had, as did the sight they woke to. The cottage was gone, they could not see the room nor feel the plush rug they had been sitting on, and Madeleine and Eponine were nowhere to be seen. At first, nothing was to be seen — only thick swirls of blues and blacks and deep purples, that were as weightless as they were heavy. They were everywhere. Les Amis were walking on them, though there was no surface, they were walking through them as they were all that could be seen, but they could never feel them. 

Then it started.

Flashes of colours, sometimes vivid, sometimes muted; they jumped and ran with vivacity in their heavy, weightless world of purple cotton. They were moving beacons, flickering around them like the will-o’-the-wisp. Slowly, though notions of time were already slipping through their fingers in this place, the colours grew and morphed and swelled until they enveloped them all. 

They were in the Musain; they recognised it instantly.

“Oh cool! We’re in the café!” Bahorel exclaimed, trying to run his hand over a table that wasn’t truly there. He felt nothing.

It was dark and late; their meeting had ended long ago. At the very end of the room, only Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire remained. Grantaire’s elbows rested on another table, his face was in his hands. Joly’s arm was wrapped around his shoulder, his hand repeatedly petting it. They looked younger, and they were bruised; Les Amis had been more vocal, back then, more  _ physically _ vocal. They had thrown themselves headfirst into protests against their own kind, against those who were content to remain the proverbial —only sometimes— Big Bad Wolf. Things had often gotten out of control and though they regretted nothing of it, they had been scared at times, except maybe for Enjolras who had always been ready to give it all.

“It’s us!” Bossuet pointed out happily. Joly squeezed his hand tight enough it would have hurt, were they actually physical beings then.

This was Grantaire’s memory, they all knew it in their own mind and chest. 

The table was covered in empty glasses and bottles, and Grantaire’s hand was wet and sticky with the drink he had sloshed over it in drunkenness. He drank from a chipped cup, though he had long gone past the point alcohol might ease the heavy weight of one’s soul, and well into the territory of the anxieties and fears that spirits fuelled.

“I don’t understand, why can’t he take care of himself and  _ stay safe _ ?” the memory of Grantaire slurred. “Why does he have to always push for more and more and more?” he said with rough hits on the table, a loud punctuation. His drink emptied even more with the shock and the table rumbled; he had always been strong.

They all watched in a strange sort of fascination, completely enthralled, holding their breath. Grantaire, the unphysical yet real Grantaire, was frozen at the spot. He didn’t seem to really know what he was watching; the memory must have been stolen by the alcohol he had consumed that night, but surely he could guess. Understanding and horror were dawning on his face, yet he remained entirely unmoving. Had Jehan not known better, they might have thought he had been turned to stone by Eponine’s gaze.

“Can’t he see he’s enough as he is? I’m sure Apollo himself could be consumed by  _ revolutionary fervour.  _ Even  _ Enjolras _ can,” he was spitting the words bitterly, as if his wine had turned sour. His head dropped once more, and he added, miserable: “I just… don’t want him to be a martyr. I wouldn’t survive it.”

The constant droning of wretchedness they had felt since walking into the room morphed into something else, something bigger and strong enough that it choked them. It was the pain of a bleeding heart, they all felt it. But underneath the pain, or rather, above it and around it and through all the cracks and crevices it created, there was admiration and awe and love. A deep, faithful and enduring kind of love; they felt it, too. 

Enjolras gasped, his eyes wide and swivelling to Grantaire, and the selkie started walking, gaze on the wooden floor of the Musain which was already dissolving into heavy dark swirls once more.

“Moving on. That’s obviously not it,” he said with a harshness that would broke no protest, not even from someone as stubborn as Enjolras. They all walked away and the Musain disappeared.

No one said anything. They all knew what they had witnessed, though amongst them, all but one had known for a long time already. This was different, however. They had witnessed something deeply personal and all of them remained silent, likely to pretend privacy. Their journey had only just begun.

They did not meet the dark hues that made this dream-place again. Instead, as they left their first memory, it immediately morphed into another one, and so would it happen for the rest of their journey.

They arrived in a workshop. The light was low, it was getting late. Everyone had left already to return to their homes, families and friends. Only one remained, his short red hair giving him away instantly.

“We’re in Feuilly’s memory,” Combeferre said, eyes bright with interest.

He was correct. Feuilly alone was in the room, and here he was, sanding flat pieces of wood with a methodical grace. He was solely focused on his work; his motions were calculated with a millimetre accuracy. He wasn’t so much brushing the wood as he was caressing it, whispering to it. You might think this an image, and perhaps it was, but perhaps there was more to it, like dryad magic woven into his wordless encouragements and careful attention.

Quickly enough, he moved onto polishing, or so their inexperienced eyes assumed. There was nothing much to this memory, and certainly not the key to returning Madeleine to her parents, yet they were all loath to move on, except maybe for Feuilly himself who seemed quite embarrassed by all this attention.

Still, they watched on, completely mesmerised and unable to walk away, as a feeling of pride and contentment filled their chests. They watched in reverent awe the honest feelings of an honest man.

“ _ Wow, _ ” Marius breathed.

Several others echoed him, though we will confess to have been too affected by the sight to register who had.

“Hmm, thanks but, can we go? It’s obviously not here,” Feuilly intimated, shuffling on his feet with a blush high on his cheeks that brushed his neck and sunk low into the neckline of his shirt. 

Reluctant as they were, they followed without a word. Though rambunctious and widely different in personalities they were, Les Amis were also frighteningly close and sometimes  _ knew _ , without an explanation. It was such an unspoken thing that settled over them, they would not object to anything the owner of a memory might say, and so they walked away from the workshop to enter a bedroom.

After the delicacy and raw fragility of the first two memories, the noises were a shock. Moans and skin on skin, laughter too, and the heavy coat of lust and desire dropping onto their shoulders. 

“Fuck, no, Courfeyrac!” Enjolras exclaimed, averting his gaze. Joly yelped and hid his face in Musichetta’s shoulder.

The memory was indeed and undoubtedly Courfeyrac’s; he shared his bed with another man and two women, and the four of them seemed to be having a grand time. Courfeyrac loved people and worldly pleasures. People always loved him back.

“Oh, that night was  _ fun _ ! Come on, tell me this isn’t some serious skill?” he pointed at a particularly creative move and Jehan was rather inclined to agree, though they didn’t get the chance.

“ _ Please _ , I beg of you, let’s move on,” Enjolras said, already pulling at Combeferre and Cosette to set the group into motion once more.

“Pfff, spoilsports. You guys obviously have no appreciation for the arts,” Courfeyrac said, earning himself a snort from Grantaire and a low-five from Bahorel. 

They rushed out of the room and through the swirls, they entered a garden which Jehan recognised instantly. 

“Thank God,” Marius sighed in relief. “Too much information, Courfeyrac.”

There was Jehan, kneeling by the honeysuckle, straw hat on their head with Madeleine nodding off in her wrap, strapped to their back. The sun was warm on their skin without being scorching, and a gentle breeze caressed them and carried the singing of robins and sparrows. Bahorel was by their side, sullenly pulling at weeds, when the witch stood up.

“I’ll be back,” they told him.

“There’s baby Madeleine!” Bossuet happily pointed, and Marius rushed closer to see her better.

Some followed Jehan as they disappeared into the tangle of their garden, collected flowers and foliage, forming a bouquet of tulips and fuchsia, of devotion and love. And all the while, as they built it up flower by flower, the feeling grew stronger and wider and heavier inside of Les Amis’ chests. Once more, it was love, though it was of a different kind than Grantaire’s had felt. Where Grantaire was all-consuming and undying passion and admiration, the never-ending roll of the tide, the strength of the waves and the depth of an ocean, Jehan was the steadfast growth of an oak. Their love was as deeply rooted as Grantaire’s, but it had found no rock on its way through the soil and kept growing down, down, down to the depth of the earth. It was the kind of love that had grown peacefully over time with no promise of return but for easy faith.

When the feeling reached its head, all who witnessed that memory felt breathless from the strength of it. Let it never be said that quiet and steady cannot be powerful.

The memory of Jehan handed their flowers to Bahorel, shaking the scene with nervous thrumming. Jehan froze and Bahorel turned to them, jaw slacked in surprise and understanding. The memory of Bahorel disappeared back into the cottage, leaving the witch behind, deflated; Courfeyrac let out a pained groan:

“For fuck’s sake, Bahorel!”

“No comment,” Jehan said before walking away. Whatever epiphany they all had under the spell would have to wait; they had a mission to fulfil, and Jehan could not claim to share Courfeyrac’s taste for exhibitionism. They would much rather deal with the consequences in the physical world, preferably with their friends in another room.

They stepped into another of Courfeyrac’s memories. 

“Again? Really?” Bossuet asked.

“Hey, I can’t help it if my life is exciting!”

The scene and feelings here were much different in nature than those of his first memory. Frustration and shame rolled over them when they entered Courfeyrac’s old flat. He pulled a dish out of the oven and dark smoke poured out of the open door. He looked at a written recipe, then at the sorry charred remains of his dessert and sighed.

“Moving on!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “You guys didn’t see anything!”

“Seriously, this is what you choose to be embarrassed by?” Grantaire asked, bemused.

“I do  _ not  _ need to justify myself and if any of you ever tell my Mamie that I can’t make clafoutis, no one will ever find your body!”

He stormed off, and the memory changed. They were back inside the Musain.

“Not again,” Grantaire moaned, and Enjolras twisted to look at him.

“Aga—” Enjolras stopped speaking when it became clear they had just stepped into one of his memories.

This time, they were all at their usual spot and the meeting was in full swing. The order of the day, coincidentally, was the lingering stigma around faes, mostly due to their history with firstborns. Les Amis buzzed with excitement, half from the lead they finally had, half from Memory Enjolras’ own fervour as he addressed the room —Enjolras was always at his most passionate when talking about injustice.

“Everyone spread around the room and listen to the conversations going on, this might be it,” said Enjolras.

They did so and listened to their own selves pitching into the conversation or whispering commentaries to their neighbours. The meeting went on and their preoccupation grew, they shook their heads in disappointment.  _ Still nothing _ , after Bossuet and Joly snorted, snickering into the other’s ear about the picture of a dog on a skateboard Grantaire was drawing on a napkin.  _ Not yet _ , when Feuilly and Eponine whispered at each other, quietly debating about the point of a leaflet campaign.

Eventually, Combeferre replaced Enjolras, finishing the meeting as he was wont to do sometimes. The memory of Enjolras sat down and his emotions quieted for a while when the meeting finished. They were starting to lose hope, but the Combeferre who had walked through memories with the rest of them pointed out that they always stayed to chat afterwards, that all was not lost, and so they stayed. 

They listened some more, made sure to spread out so as not to miss any little bit of conversation, and steadily, emotions overtook them once more. It started as a confused bundle of feelings that no one could really identify; they turned towards Enjolras, the one who ignored their presence and was clearly unaware he was being seen.

He watched from his chair, which stood away from the rest of the group. He didn’t watch his friends, not really, though his eyes flickered to them every once in a while. Who he watched with great attention was Grantaire. An outsider, by which we mean anyone who might see him without being able to sense his feelings then, might have thought him to be scowling at the selkie. His face was serious, thoughtful, and not at all joyful; his heart, however, was making sense of the emotions swimming confusedly in his chest. He was warming steadily and when the memory of Grantaire threw his head back to laugh at something Jehan had said, hand clutching at his stomach, his heart felt like drowning. Fondness overtook it, yet nothing showed on Enjolras’ face. When Grantaire talked with animation about an upcoming exhibition, his chest fluttered with interest and admiration and still, the glaring mask he wore remained firmly on. It wasn’t quite as sharp and profound as Jehan’s feelings or Grantaire’s himself had been, but it was there and it was budding, and Enjolras was a master at hiding it.

Who could have said, then, that this turmoil of emotions wasn’t in his heart every time he appeared to scrutinise their resident skeptic?

“Please stop looking at him or, well, me. We have to stay until the end, just in case, but stop. Please,” Enjolras all but begged, eyes steeled on the memory of their friends, still listening to any possible hint in the conversation.

Everyone complied once more, though all of them turned towards Grantaire, whose complexion somehow managed to look both darker and deathly pale. Had his form been physical then, Jehan might have worried he may be sick. 

“Stop looking at me, we’ve got a job to do,” he grunted, but his shaky voice betrayed him. He trained a serious gaze on them that might have rivalled with Enjolras’ himself, and they said nothing.

In the end, the memory was useless as far as Madeleine’s custody was concerned, though Jehan had found it to be rather illuminating. They were all dejected when they left the room, and they remained so for many a memory they crossed thereafter.

The memories started to blur into one another. They saw Jehan writing and writing throughout the night, Marius’ breathless announcement that he had met the love of his life —they also stuck around that one, but it was unsuccessful—, they saw tender memories of Musichetta and her lovers, their late mornings, shenanigans and easy loving, they saw Combeferre studying alongside Cosette and Eponine, who kept him company. 

They saw a jumble of memories, all ultimately useless for their quest, until they walked into noise and chaos. Considering the inclinations of the group, the first guess of many was one of their protests, until they heard the laughs. The dark swirls of blues and purples never quite faded, too. That is when they understood they had walked into a club.

The memory was Bahorel’s, and everyone’s first call was to walk away. What good could a night out be? They spotted Marius, wearing a cheap plastic crown that was intended to be Cosette’s and spelt “bride to be” in garish, rhinestoned letters. Cosette herself wore a sash that announced “future groom”. These had been Courfeyrac’s idea and Enjolras had loudly protested against these — _ “do you know how sexist these things get?” _ —, but the bride and groom were too deliriously happy to care much about it. In fact, they were all too happy to pay anything any real mind that night, even and perhaps especially their alcohol consumption.

They had decided to celebrate Cosette’s and Marius’ stag night and hen do all together and, as a result, this particular party had been one to remember. Or rather, it would have been, had anyone remembered anything substantial about it. 

They had drunk. A lot. Even those who rarely indulged had been way past the point of drunkenness, and most had reached what would typically be called a “drunken mess”. To everyone’s surprise, Grantaire had been one of the better offs; “practice”, he had claimed.

“Wait wait wait,” said Courfeyrac. “Aren’t you guys curious to see what happened that night? None of us remembered shit the next day.”

Surprisingly, it was Combeferre who nodded. He loved nothing better than  _ knowing _ . “I’ll confess I am. I’ve always wondered what led to the pictures we have of that night.”

Jehan turned to Cosette and Marius. “It’s your call.”

Cosette looked guiltily up at Marius. “Can we? It was such a fun night… I mean, I think.”

And so they dove deeper into the crowded club. The night was already far along, Les Amis had all waved sobriety goodbye hours ago, Courfeyrac and Grantaire were dancing on some shakey tables, Marius and Cosette were kissing with rather too much tongue to be truly appropriate in public, and Eponine had climbed onto Feuilly’s back while they both kept a conversation with Musichetta. 

Bahorel’s feelings were an unreadable tangle of amusement and euphoria, with various peaks on particularly funny occasions, including but not limited to Grantaire’s inevitable slip from the wobbly table. He fell straight into the surprised arms of Bahorel and landed quite gracefully, as one would carry a bride in the sort of films Eponine pretended to hate but in fact watched religiously. 

“Behold, a bride!” Bahorel shouted before planting one right on Grantaire’s mouth. The travelling Amis laughed alongside their own memory selves, and Bahorel dropped Grantaire back to his feet. “Yikes, is that what pining tastes like? Gross!” 

“You’re one to talk!” the selkie snorted. 

The night went on in similar shenanigans, inebriated dares, and nonsensical conversations. Marius and Courfeyrac danced a frenzied tango, Bossuet nearly peed himself laughing, and Combeferre returned after a long disappearing act with his button-down shirt backwards. His greeting was all of a happily slurred: “Not quite sure why, but it’s getting hard to breathe. But not to worry, I am a healer.”

Because there was little chance for them to find the desired memory in this setting and the spell was slowly tiring our travellers, they all came to sit down by the bar. Their weariness had in fact very little to do with physical strength, for they had been out of their bodies for a good while, but they collectively chose to ignore that fact. There, they joined the memory of Bahorel who had gotten an umpteenth refill alongside Cosette. 

Bahorel threw a companionable arm around Cosette’s shoulder, and she happily leaned into his embrace. They stayed silent for a moment, watching their friends enjoy themselves. Most of them were dancing, or attempting to, in Jehan’s case. They shook their body in ludicrous little waves and jerks until they very nearly tripped on their own feet; Feuilly steadied them before they could fall.

At last, Les Amis felt their first noteworthy emotion since walking into the club. It was, as you might have guessed, a love that is impossibly fond.

“Ever gonna decide to get your shits together?” Cosette asked with a pointed look over the edge of her cocktail glass as she took a sip. The effect was quite ruined when she almost poked her eyes with the colourful paper umbrella sticking out.

“We can’t all fucking experience love at first sight, Cosette. Some of us are friends first, and that makes it fucking hard,” Bahorel said. Alcohol always made him swear even more and much less creatively than usual. “Besides, I’m still not nearly as bad as those two dumbasses.” He pointed towards Enjolras and Grantaire, who were on the dance floor half dancing, half arguing whether calling doce de leite “milk jam” was morally wrong or not.

Cosette snickered then coughed; some of her drink had just gone up her nose. “I don’t think it’s scientifically possible to be as bad as them,” she slurred.

“Ah… Actually, their case might not be completely hopeless!” Bahorel perked up. Enjolras was indeed dancing progressively closer, awkward hands reaching out towards Grantaire’s hips. Grantaire looked a little shell-shocked.

“Pff, I bet you nothing will happen! They’re  _ ho-pe-less _ !” she shouted over the music.

Both Grantaire and Enjolras who were witnessing the scene seemed to be mentally begging for the earth to swallow them. It might have, out of sheer pity, which made it all the more unfortunate that there was no earth to save them, not in the dimension where they currently were.

“You bet me?” Bahorel said. “I bet you Enjolras is gonna try to make out with R.” 

“Ha! No way! Just yesterday, he told him to shove it so deep he would feel his hand up his throat.” Enjolras had indeed been known to be quite harsh to Grantaire at times. “No way he’s worked out that sexual tension, and no way he’s ready to kiss him. I bet you he won’t!”

"Oh no,” the somewhat real Cosette breathed out. Everyone held their breath.

Bahorel downed most of his beer, though a large amount of it landed on his beard. “You really bet me? Because I fucking  _ know _ he will. He’s gonna make that damn move.” 

It might be important to note that Bahorel  _ did _ , in fact, know. Or rather, he had very good reasons to make that assumption, these reasons being that he had spent a decent amount of time talking Grantaire up to Enjolras not even thirty minutes prior. He had commented at length on how delicious a fit his jeans were, how strong his arms, how plump his lips had been when he had kissed them… When Enjolras had looked sufficiently flustered, Bahorel had moved on. He hadn’t had a bet in mind, then, but Bahorel had been sure this would provide him with great amusement at some point, and his idea was proving to be correct. 

“Nuh- _ huh _ .” Cosette’s eyes were shiny from the alcohol, her cheeks flushed. She would have struggled to stand if she hadn’t been sitting. “I’ll bet you  _ anything _ . Not happening!”

“Anything?” Bahorel teased with a wide grin.

“Anything! I’ll even bet you, umm…” She paused to think a second, her brain fogged by inebriation. “I’ll bet you my firstborn!” she shouted finally, proud to have found a solid stake.

“Fuck!” The swear rang twice at the same time; one was from the real Cosette, looking absolutely mortified, the second was from the memory of Bossuet, who had just bumped into the two friends. The content of his three pints spilled onto their laps. They all stood up, reaching for napkins to wipe themselves with, and consequently missed Enjolras’ clumsy attempt at diving forward to steal a kiss. Grantaire, still sober enough to be shocked by Enjolras’ attention, clumsily dodged it. Of the few who witnessed that particular interaction, no one remembered it the following day. 

The spell dissolved around them.

* * *

The light from the room hit them all at once when they blinked their eyes open. They were back on Jehan’s rug, sat in their neat circle.

Courfeyrac howled in laughter the second he came back to himself, several others tried to hold their snickering back, to varying success. 

“Wha— Cosette!” Marius spluttered.

She was already on her feet, pulling at her hair. “Oh, don’t start with me, Marius! You traded her for  _ pie _ !” 

Even Combeferre snorted. 

Jehan remained where they sat. The spell and subsequent revelations had drained them, as did the emotional toll of what they knew to be coming.

“Can we please finish this? We can renounce our claims, now.”

The room fell silent instantly, and Cosette and Marius stopped arguing, their eyes wide with disbelief. They would finally get their child back. 

Eponine brought Madeleine to them, though she handed her to Bahorel. He took her gratefully and held her tight against his chest. Les Amis barely dared to breathe as Courfeyrac led them through the process once he had managed wipe his tears and stop hiccuping in laughter.

And at last, at long last, Cosette was able to take her daughter in her arms, and at last, at long last, Madeleine stuck out her tongue at her.

“That means she’s happy,” Jehan said when Bahorel seemed too choked up to do so himself.

Cosette laughed in pure delight, and Marius wrapped his arms around her, bringing his wife and child against his chest. He laughed, too, and his eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

“To the Pontmercys!” Bossuet shouted, although he had no drink to toast with.

“To the Pontmercys! Even if they promised their dau— ouch!” Courfeyrac squeaked when Grantaire elbowed him in the side.

“Too soon.”

Had the spell not been such an exhausting experience, Les Amis would have undoubtedly broken into further cheers and celebrations. As it was, emotions had run high and there was much to be discussed; Enjolras guided Grantaire to the farthest end of the room, where they proceeded to violently whisper at each other. They both looked upset. Jehan, from the spot they had dropped on on their sofa, watched as, finally, their conversation eased into something more peaceful. Enjolras smiled shyly, his hand brushing against Grantaire’s, who answered in kind, though with much more hesitation.

To Jehan’s relief, everyone quickly streamed out, the new hopeful lovebirds leaving amongst the first ones. They all waved their goodbyes, giving parting hugs and kissing as they went, until only Cosette and Marius were left.

“Thank you so, so much for taking care of her,” Marius said, beaming.

“She’s very lucky to have such awesome godparents,” Cosette agreed before taking the both of them in her arms for a hug. “Thank you.” 

“She was ok,” Bahorel said, but he fooled no one. His eyes were red and his nose suspiciously runny.

“Take your daughter back home,” Jehan told them. “You can come back for her things tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” they both repeated. They said so twice more before they were out of the door, leaving Bahorel and Jehan on their own. Russell had left long ago, and Maurice was nowhere to be seen.

“You know, I’m really gonna miss the kid,” Bahorel sniffed.

“I know, dear.” They reached for his hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Me too.” 

Bahorel sniffed once more, and a long moment of silence stretched out between them and their clasped hands. Finally, Jehan spoke. They were done waiting, and it was too late for it now anyway; they had both seen too much.

“The flowers were a declaration, by the way. And you know the beetle I gave you?”

“Yeah?”

“It was to court you,” they said.

“To— what? To— Urgh, ok,” Bahorel agreed, too tired to argue about what message could possibly hide behind a dry insect. There was another long stretch of silence until a slow satisfied smile appeared on Bahorel’s face. “You know, in the garden, that joke I made about sex between your plants?” 

That hadn’t been the exact phrasing —Jehan remembered it vividly—, but they hummed in acknowledgement.

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Oh.” They blinked, thoughtful for a while before smiling to themself. “Shall we, then? Sex magic is actually very potent and I’d love to introduce you to it.” With no other warning nor invitation, Jehan stood on their tiptoes and took Bahorel’s bearded cheeks between their hands to press a short yet passionate kiss onto his lips, a promise of much more to come. The demon had not even had time to blink before the witch was gone, though their warmth lingered on his face and would undoubtedly do so for a very long time. He blinked once, twice, and finally registered he was still frozen on the spot, gaping like a fish.

There was a clear spring and purpose to Jehan’s step as they left, and had they not almost reached the door already, halfway to their garden, they might have noticed how Bahorel had stayed behind, jaw still slack, eyes bright with delight. He was at a complete loss of words for the second time in his life.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about the songs in this chapter. 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekUQpDDBzY4) is the lullaby Jehan sings to Madeleine. It was one of my favourite lullabies as a kid which is why I originally chose to include it but as I wrote the lyrics, I realised it really worked with the story and, in this context, turned the lyrics and the scene very bittersweet! Here's what the last lines mean in English: 
> 
> "Cette chanson douce, je veux la chanter aussi,  
> Pour toi, ô ma douce, jusqu’à la fin de ma vie.  
> Jusqu’à la fin de ma vie."
> 
> "This soft song, I also want to sing it,  
> To you, my darling, until the end of my days.  
> Until the end of my days."
> 
> Now I also mention a specific song playing when Bahorel and Jehan dance in the living room. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8O4QyiFL6QE) is the first song playing, which I adore, and here's [some](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXbB7nGdREk) [links](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ui1U3gRrPVc) to the [other](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JA6I8MF-BI) songs I imagined playing in the background.  
> And finally, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8TKNbwC6L78) is the song that interrupts them!
> 
>   
> Other side-note: There will be a few accompanying one-shots in this universe, the first one being about Enjolras!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story! Thank you so so much if you've made it this far!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic (not counting the shameful, shameful things that came from my 10 yo mind a decade or so ago) so I'll be very happy with any feedback you might have for me!
> 
> You can find me [here](https://les-amis-dcd.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


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